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SWALLOW   FLIGHTS. 


^ 


Swallow  Flights. 


NEW    EDITION    OF   "POEMS,"  PUBLISHED    IN 
1877,  WITH  TEN  ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


BY 


LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON, 

AUTHOR  OF   "IN  THE  GARDEN   OF  DREAMS,"   ETC. 


Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 
Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1892. 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


SEniijersitg  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


J^EAR  eyes,  that  read  these  lines  of  mine 
As  you  have  read  my  hearty 
JForgive,  since  you  the  one  divine, 
The  others'  lack  of  art. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Swallow-Flights ii 

May-Flowers 13 

My  Summer 15 

Morning  Glory 17 

A  Painted  Fan 19 

Long  is  the  Way       21 

AuTOMNE 22 

Out  in  the  Snow • 24 

A  Weed 26 

A  Quest 28 

Some  Day  or  Other 31 ' 

Through  a  Window 32 

Waiting 34 

Wife  to  Husband      .    .    '. 36 

After  the  Mountains 38 

Alone  by  the  Bay 40 

Midsummer  in  New  England 42 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

At  Etretat 44 

The  House  of  Death 46 

"  She  was  Won  in  an  Idle  Day  *' 49 

A  Life's  Loss » 51 

The  Singer 55 

How  Long  ? 58 

The  Song  of  a  Summer 60 

If 62 

Fiat  Justitia      . 64 

At  the  Last 66 

What  she  said  in  her  Tomb 68 

A  Summer's  Ghost 70 

Lover  and  Friend  hast  Thou  put  far  from  me    .    .  72 

Beauty  for  Ashes 74 

To  my  Heart 76 

Alien  Waters 78 

Looking  Back 81 

A  Problem ^Z 

At  a  Window 85 

To  A  Lady  in  a  Picture ^7 

My  Captive 88 

Roses 91 

Down  the  River .' 93 

Love's  Land 95 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 

Her  Window 96 

A  Madrigal 97 

Question 99 

I    FAIN   WOULD   GO lOI 

The  Spring  is  Late •    .    .  103 

Selfish  Prayer 105 

For  me  Alone ic; 

Ad  Te  Domine 109 

If  I  could  Keep  Her  so -.no 

Annie's  Daughter 113 

Looking  into  the  Well 116 

Like  a  Ch[ld 120 

A  Song  in  the  Wood 123 

My  Boy 125 

Trothplight 129 

The  House  in  the  Meadow 132 

From  Dusk  to  D^wn 137 

There 140 

Somebody's  Child 142 

A  Woman's  Waiting 144 

John  A.  Andrew 149 

The  Country  of  "  If" 151 

For  Cupid  Dead 152 

We  lay  us  down  to  Sleep 154 


10  CONTENTS. 

Sonnets  : 

PAGE 

The  New  Day 159 

One  Dread  =    =    ...    c     ....    c 160 

Afar 161 

Last  Year 162 

First  Love  .    .    . 164 

Love's  Forgiveness 165 

In  Time  to  come    .    .    .     , 166 

A  Summer's  Growth 167 

My  Birthday 168 


S  WALL  O  W'FLIGHTS. 

T^ORTH  from  the  wind-swept  Country  of  my  Hearty 

Fly  fast,  swift  wings  ! 
For  hence  the  summers  and  their  suns  depart^  — 
Here  no  bird  sings. 

With  spring  this  country  was  ail  verdurous 

When  first  you  came  ; 
Its  leafage  of  sweet  songs  solicitous; 

Its  skies  aflame 

With  dreaming  of  the  summer's  warm  delights  ; 

Streams  sought  the  sea  ; 
White  moons  made  beatitifnl  the  waiting  nights  ; 

Your  wings  were  free. 


12  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS, 

But  here  you  nested  through  the  smiling  spri?ig,  — 

Through  summer,  too  ; 
^Tis  autumn  now,  and  pleasant  things  take  wing, 

So  why  not  you  1 

Fly  hence,  and  carry  with  you  all  my  dreams^ 

My  hopes ^  my  fears  ; 
Shall  I,  while  sitting  by  Lif e' s  frozen  streams, 

Weep  idle  tears  ? 

Fly  hence,  swift  wings  —  /  have  been  glad  with  you 

Tn  Life^ s  glad  spring ', 
Heard  summer  songs,  afid  thought  their  promise  true  ; 

But  now  —  take  wing. 

You  are  not  doves,  that  you  should  bring  back  leaves 

From  whelming  seas  ; 
Fly  far,  swift  truants,  from  my  silent  eaves,  — 

Leave  me  but  peace. 


MAY-FLOWERS. 


13 


MAY-FLOWERS. 

F  you  catch  a  breath  of  sweetness, 

And  follow  the  odorous  hint 
Through  woods  where  the  dead  leaves  rustle 
And  the  golden  mosses  glint, 

Along  the  spicy  sea-coast, 

Over  the  desolate  down, 
You  will  find  the  dainty  May-flowers 

When  you  come  to  Plymouth  town. 

Where  the  shy  Spring  tends  her  darlings, 

And  hides  them  away  from  sight. 
Pull  off  the  covering  leaf-sprays 

And  gather  them,  pink  and  white. 


1 4  MA  Y-FL  O  WERS, 

Tinted  by  mystical  moonlight, 
Freshened  by  frosty  dew, 

Till  the  fair,  transparent  blossoms 
To  their  pure  perfection  grew. 

Then  carry  them  home  to  your  lady, 
For  Flower  of  the  Spring  is  she,  — 

Pink  and  white,  and  dainty  and  slight, 
And  lovely  as  Love  can  be. 

Shall  they  die  because  of  her  beauty  ? 

Shall  they  live  because  she  is  sweet  1 
They  will  know  for  what  they  were  born, 

But  you  —  must  wait  at  her  feet. 


MY  SUMMER.  If 


MY   SUMMER. 

O  you  think  the  summer  will  ever  come, 
With  white  of  lily  and  flush  of  rose,  — 
With  the  warm,  bright  days  of  joy  and  June, 
So  long  you  dream  they  will  never  close  ? 


Will  the  birds,  atilt  on  the  bending  boughs, 
Sing  out  their  hearts  in  a  mad  delight ; 

And  the  golden  butterflies,  sun-suffused. 
Shimmer  and  shine  from  morn  till  night  ? 

Do  you  think  my  summer  will  ever  come, 
With  brow  of  lily  and  cheek  of  rose  ? 

Shall  I  hold  her  fast,  —  my  Joy,  my  June,  — 
And  dream  that  my  day  will  never  close  ? 


l6  MV  SUMMER. 

Will  she  mock  the  birds  on  the  bending  boughs 
(For  her  voice  is  music,  —  my  heart's  delight), 

Or  be  content,  like  the  butterflies, 

In  the  sun  of  my  love  from  morn  till  night  ? 


MORNING  GLORY.  17 


MORNING    GLORY. 

ARTH^S  awake,  *neath  the  laughing  skies, 
After  the  dewy  and  dreamy  night,  — 
Riot  of  roses  and  babel  of  birds, 
All  the  world  in  a  whirl  of  delight. 


Roses  smile  in  their  white  content, 
Roses  blush  in  their  crimson  bliss, 

As  the  vagrant  breezes  wooing  them 
Ruffle  their  petals  with  careless  kiss. 

Yellow  butterflies  flutter  and  float 

Jewelled  humming-birds  glitter  and  glow, 

And  scorning  the  ways  of  such  idle  things 
Bees  flit  busily  to  and  fro. 


I8  MORNING  GLORY. 

The  mocking-bird  swells  his  anxious  throat, 

Trying  to  be  ten  birds  in  one ; 
And  the  swallow  twitters,  and  dives,  and  darts 

Into  the  azure  to  find  the  sun. 

But  robin  red-breast  builds  his  house 
Singing  a  song  of  the  joy  to  come. 

And  the  oriole  trims  his  golden  vest, 
Glad  to  be  back  in  his  last  year's  home. 

Lilies  that  sway  on  their  slender  stalks. 
Morning-glories  that  nod  to  the  breeze. 

Bloom  of  blossoms  and  joy  of  birds,  — 
What  in  the  world  is  better  than  these  ? 


A   PAINTED  FAN.  1 9 


A    PAINTED    FAN. 

OSES  and  butterflies  snared  on  a  fan, 

All  that  is  left  of  a  summer  gone  by ; 
Of  swift,  bright  wings  that  flashed  in  the  sun. 
And  loveliest  blossoms  that  bloomed  to  die  I 


By  what  subtle  spell  did  you  lure  them  here, 
Fixing  a  beauty  that  will  not  change  ; 

Roses  whose  petals  never  will  fall, 

Bright,  swift  wings  that  never  will  range  ? 

Had  you  owned  but  the  skill  to  snare  as  well 
The  swift-winged  hours  that  came  and  went, 

To  prison  the  words  that  in  music  died. 
And  fix  with  a  spell  the  heart's  content, 


20  A   PAINTED  FAN, 

Then  had  you  been  of  magicians  the  chief ; 

And  loved  and  lovers  should  bless  your  art, 
If  you  could  but  have  painted  the  soul  of  the  thing, 

Not  the  rose  alone,  but  the  rose's  heart ! 

Flown  are  those  days  with  their  winged  delights, 
As  the  odor  is  gone  from  the  summer  rose ; 

Yet  still,  whenever  I  wave  my  fan, 

The  soft,  south  wind  of  memory  blows. 


LONG  IS  THE   WAY,  21 


LONG   IS  THE  WAY. 


]ONG  is  the  way,  O  Lord! 
My  steps  are  weak : 
I  listen  for  Thy  word, — 
When  wilt  Thou  speak? 

Must  I  still  wander  on 
'Mid  noise  and  strife; 

Or  go  as  Thou  hast  gone, 
From  life  to  Life? 


Q&A 


22  AUTOMNE, 

AUTOxMNE. 

[For  a  Picture  by  Hamon.] 


Hj  glad  and  free  was  Love  until  the  fall ; 
Then  came  a  spirit  on  the  frosty  air 
To  chill  with  icy  breath  the  summer's  bloom, 
And  Love  lies  with  the  blossoms,  blighted 
there. 

He  throve  so  kindly  all  the  summer-time,  — 
Not  warmer  was  the  rose's  crimson  heart ; 

Dews  fell  to  bless  him,  and  the  soft  winds  blew. 
And  gentle  rains  shed  tears  to  ease  his  smart. 

Through  long  June  days  and  burning  August  noons, 
The  flowers  and  Love  stole  sweetness  from  the  sun  ; 

Then  summer  went,  — the  days  grew  brief  and  cold, 
The  short  sweet  lives  of  summer  things  were  done. 


AUTOMNE.  23 

No  butterfly  flits  through  November*s  gloom, 
No  bird-note  quivers  on  its  frosty  air,  — 

Sweet  Love  had  wings,  and  would  have  flown  ,away, 
But  'Autumn  chilled  him  with  the  blossoms  there. 


24  OUT  IN  THE  SNOW, 


OUT   IN   THE   SNOW. 


HE  snow  and  the  silence  came  down  togedier, 
Through  the  night  so  white  and  so  still ; 
And    young    folks,    housed   from    the    bitter 
weather,  — 
Housed  from  the  storm  and  the  chill,  — 


Heard  in  their  dreams  the  sleigh-bells  jingle, 
Coasted  the  hill-sides  under  the  moon, 

Felt  their  cheeks  with  the  keen  air  tingle. 
Skimmed  the  ice  with  theif  steel-clad  shoon . 

They  saw  the  snow  when  they  rose  in  the  morning, 
Glittering  ghost  of  the  vanished  night, 

Though  the  sun  shone  clear  in  the  winter  dawning. 
And  the  day  with  a  frosty  pomp  was  bright. 


OUT  IN   THE  SNOW.  2$ 

Out  in  the  clear,  cold,  winter  weather,  — 

Out  in  the  winter  air  like  wine,  — 
Kate  with  her  dancing  scarlet  feather, 

Bess  with  her  peacock  plumage  fine, 

Joe  and  Jack  with  their  pealing  laughter, 
Frank  and  Tom  with  their  gay  hallo, 

And  half  a  score  of  roisterers  after, 
Out  in  the  witching,  wonderful  snow. 

Shivering  graybeards  shuffle  and  stumble, 
Righting  themselves  with  a  frozen  frown, 

Grumbling  at  every  snowy  tumble  ; 

But  young  folks  know  why  the  snow  came  down. 


26  •      A    WEED, 


A  WEED. 

OW  shall  a  little  weed  grow, 

That  has  no  sun  ? 
Rains  fall  and  north  winds  blow,  - 
What  shall  be  done  ? 

Out  come  some  little  pale  leaves 

At  the  spring's  call. 
But  the  harsh  north  winds  blow. 

And  sad  rains  fall. 

Would'st  try  to  keep  it  warm 

With  fickle  breath } 
He  must,  who  would  give  life, 

Be  Lord  of  death. 


A    WEED.  27 

Some  day  you  forget  the  weed,  — 

Man's  thoughts  are  brief,  — 
And  your  coldness  steals  like  frost 

Through  each  pale  leaf,  . 

Till  the  weed  shrinks  back  to  die 

On  kinder  sod : 
Shall  a  life  which  found  no  sun 

In  death  find  God  ? 


28 


A   QUEST. 


A  QUEST. 


LL  in  the  summer  even, 

When  sea  and  sky  were  bright, 
As  royally  the  sunset 

Went  forth  to  meet  the  night, 


My  Love  and  I  were  sailing 
Into  the  shining  West, 

To  find  some  Happy  Island, 
Some  Paradise  of  rest. 


We  steered  where  sunset  splendor 
Made  golden  all  the  shore  ; 

The  rocks  behind  its  brightness 
Were  cruel  as  before. 


A    QUEST.  29 


Within  the  caves  sang  sirens ; 

But  there  the  whirlpools  be  : 
Not  there  the  Happy  Islands, 

Not  there  the  peaceful  sea. 

Toward  the  deep  mid-ocean 
Tides  ran  and  swift  winds  blew  : 

It  must  be  there  those  Islands 
Await  the  longing  view. 

Their  shores  are  soft  with  verdure, 
Their  skies  for  ever  fair, 

And  always  is  the  fragrance 
Of  blossoms  on  the  air. 

I  set  our  sail  to  seek  them, 
But  she,  my  Love,  drew  back  : 

"  Not  yet ;  the  night  is  chilly, 
I  fear  that  unknown  track." 


30  A    QUEST, 

So  home  we  sailed,  at  twilight, 
To  the  familiar  shore  ; 

Turned  from  the  golden  glory, 
To  live  the  old  life  o'er. 

We  '11  make  no  further  ventures,  — 
For  timid  is  my  Love,  — 

Until  fresh  sailing  orders 
Are  sent  us  from  above. 

Then  past  the  deep  mid-ocean 
'Twixt  life  and  life  we  '11  steer, 

To  land  on  happier  islands 

Than  those  we  dreamed  of  here. 


SOME  DAY  OR   OTHER, 


31 


SOME   DAY   OR   OTHER. 

OME  day  or  other  I  shall  surely  come 

Where  true  hearts  wait  for  me ; 
Then  let  me  learn  the  language  of  that  home 
While  here  on  earth  I  be, 
Lest  my  poor  lips  for  want  of  words  be  dumb 
In  that  High  Company. 


32  THROUGH  A    WINDOW, 


THROUGH  A  WINDOW. 

LIE  here  at  rest  in  my  chamber, 
And  look  through  the  window  again, 

With  eyes  that  are  changed  since  the  old  time, 
And  the  sting  of  an  exquisite  pain. 


'Tis  not  much  that  I  see  for  a  picture, 
Through  boughs  that  are  green  with  the  spring,  - 

A  barn  with  its  roof  gray  and  mossy, 
And  above  it  a  bird  on  the  wing ; 

Or,  lifting  my  head  a  thought  higher, 

Some  hills  and  a  village  I  know. 
And  over  it  all  the  blue  heaven. 

With  a  white  cloud  floating  below. 


THROUGH  A    WINDOW,  33 

Ah  !  once  the  roof  was  a  prison, 

My  mind  and  the  sky  were  free, 
My  thoughts  with  iti^  birds  went  flying, 

And  my  hopes  were  a  heaven  to  me. 

Now  I  come  from  the  limitless  distance 
Where  I  followed  my  youth's  wild  will, 

Where  they  press  the  wine  of  delusion 
That  you  drink  and  are  thirsty  still ; 

And  I  know  why  the  bird  with  the  springtime 
To  the  gnarled  old  tree  comes  back,  — 

He  has  tried  the  south  and  the  summer, 
He  has  felt  what  the  sweet  things  lack. 


34  WAITING, 


WAITING. 

'M  waiting  for  my  darling, 
Here,  sitting  by  the  sea, 

Whom  never  any  ship  that  sails 
Brings  home  again  to  me. 


"Oh,  sailor  !  have  you  seen  her? 

You  'd  know  her  by  her  eyes,  — 
So  blue  they  are,  so  tender. 

So  full  of  glad  surprise.'* 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  your  darling  : 

A  fair  wind  never  fails 
To  waft  the  good  ship  unto 

The  shore  for  which  she  sails. 


WAITING,  35 

"  King  Death  they  call  the  Captain,  — 

His  crew  a  spectral  band,  — 
He  steers  with  pennons  flying 

Toward  a  far-off  land. 

"  No  other  ship  goes  thither, 

And  back  across  that  main, 
The  passengers  he  carries 

He  never  brings  again." 


36  WIFE   TO  HUSBAND. 


WIFE   TO   HUSBAND. 


F  I  am  dust  while  thou  art  quick  and  glad, 
Bethink  thee,  sometimes,   what   good   cheer 
we  had,  — 
What  happy  days  beside  the  shining  seas, 
Or  by  the  twilight  fire  in  careless  ease, 
Reading  the  rhymes  of  some  old  poet  lover, 
Or  whispering  our  own  love-story  over. 

When  thou  hast  mourned  for  me  a  fitting  space, 

And  set  another  in  my  vacant  place, 

Charmed  with  her  brightness,  trusting  in  her  truth. 

Warmed  to  new  life  by  her  beguiling  youth, 

Be  happy,  dearest  one,  and  surely  know 

I  would  not  have  thee  thy  life's  joys  forego. 


WIFE   TO  HUSBAND,  37 

Yet  think  of  me  sometimes,  where  cold  and  still 
I  lie,  who  once  was  swift  to  do  thy  will, 
Whose  lips  so  often  answered  to  thy  kiss, 
Who  dying  blessed  thee  for  that  bygone  bliss, — 
I  pray  thee  do  not  bar  my  presence,  quite. 
From  thy  new  life,  so  full  of  new  delight. 

I  would  not  vex  thee,  waiting  by  thy  side ; 
My  shadow  should  not  chill  thy  fair  young  bride ; 
Only  bethink  thee  how  alone  I  lie  !  — 
To  die  and  be  forgotten  were  to  die 
A  double  death ;  and  I  deserve  of  thee 
Some  grace  of  memory,  fair  however  she  be. 


38  AFTER    THE  MOUNTAINS, 


AFTER   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

[To  L.  C.  B  ] 

N  my  dreams  I  see  the  hill-tops 

Where  the  cloudy  pathways  led, 
You  and  I  have  trod  together 
In  the  days  that  now  are  dead. 

Still  I  see  their  shining  splendors 
Height  on  height  before  me  rise, 

And  the  radiance  of  their  glory 
Streams  across  my  half-shut  eyes. 

In  my  dreams  you  are  beside  me,  — 
Still  I  hear  your  tender  tone, 

And  your  dear  eyes  light  my  darkness 
Till  I  am  no  more  alone, 


AFTER    THE  MOUNTAINS,  39 

For  with  memories  I  am  haunted, 

And  the  silence  seems  to  beat 
With  the  music  of  your  talking 

And  the  coming  of  your  feet. 


40 


ALONE  BY  THE  BAY. 


ALONE    BY    THE    BAY. 

E  is  gone.     O  my  heart,  he  is  gone ; 
And  the  sea  remains  and  the  sky, 
And  the  skiffs  flit  in  and  out, 

And  the  white-winged  yachts  go  by. 


The  waves  run  purple  and  green, 
And  the  sunshine  glints  and  glows, 

And  freshly  across  the  Bay 

The  breath  of  the  morning  blows. 

Ah,  it  was  better  last  night, 

When  the  dark  shut  down  on  the  main. 
And  the  phantom  fleet  lay  still, 

And  I  heard  the  waves  complain ; 


ALONE  BY  THE  BAY,  4 1 

For  the  sadness  that  dwells  in  my  heart, 
And  the  rune  of  their  endless  woe,  — 

Their  longing  and  void  and  despair,  — 
Kept  time  in  their  ebb  and  flow. 


42  MIDSUMMER  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 


MIDSUMMER   IN    NEW   ENGLAND. 

IJHE  royalty  of  midsummer  is  here  ! 

With    daisy   blooms   the    meadow  lands   are 
white ; 

And  over  them  the  birds  chant  their  delight, 
And  the  blue,  listening  heavens  bend  to  hear. 

Within  the  lily's  painted  cup  the  bee 

Swings  drowsily,  and  dreams  about  the  rose 
He  loved  in  June,  and  how  her  leaves  repose 

Where  none  can  find  them  save  the  winds  and  he. 

The  trees  are  heavy  with  their  wealth  of  green ; 
And  under  them  the  waiting  maidens  walk. 
And  fill  the  idle  hours  with  girlish  talk 

Of  such  a  knight  as  never  girl  has  seen, — 


MIDSUMMER  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.         43 

How  he  is  noble,  good,  and  princely  tall; 

And  one  day  he  will  come  from  his  far  place, 
And  read  the  blushes  in  his  true  love's  face. 

And  she  will  rise  and  follow  at  his  call. 

And  then  I  see  a  little  painted  boat. 

Its  white  sails  set  to  seek  the  summer  sea, 
And  in  that  boat  two  lovers,  young  and  free, 

With  favoring  winds,  'neath  smiling  skies  afloat; 

And  all  the  proud  midsummer's  glow  is  come. 
And  all  the  joy  of  flower  and  bird  and  bee. 
And  all  the  deeper  joy  when  he  and  she, 

Their  hearts'  midsummer  found,  with  bliss   are  dumb. 


44  AT  ETRETAT. 


AT  ETRETAT. 

HE  ocean  beats  against  the  stern,  dumb  shore 
The  stormy  passion  of  its  mighty  heart,  — 
The  sky,  where  no  stars  shine,  is  black  above, 
And  thou  and  I  sit  from  the  world  apart. 


We  two,  with  lives  no  star  of  hope  makes  bright, — 
Whom  bliss  forgets,  and  joy  no  longer  mocks,  — 

Hark  to  the  wind's  wild  cry,  the  sea's  complaint, 
And  break  with  wind  and  sea  against  the  rocks. 

Sore-wounded,  hurled  on  the  dark  shore  of  Fate, 
We  stretch  out  helpless  hands,  and  cry  in  vain,  — 

Our  joy  went  forth,  white-sailed,  at  dawn  of  day  ; 
To-night  is  pitiless  for  all  our  pain. 


AT  ETRETAT.  45 

We  are  not  glad  of  any  morn  to  come, 

Since  that  winged  joy  we  never  more  shall  see,  — 
But  in  the  passion  of  the  winds  and  waves 

Something  there  seems  akin  to  thee  and  me. 

They  call !     Shall  we  not  go,  out  on  that  tide, 

To  touch,  perchance,  some  shore  where  tempests 
cease. 

Where  no  wind  blows,  and  storm-torn  souls  forget 
Their  past  disasters  in  that  utmost  peace  ? 


46  THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH, 


THE    HOUSE   OF    DEATH. 

OT.  a  hand  has  lifted  the  latchet 
Since  she  went  out  of  the  door,  — 
No  footstep  shall  cross  the  threshold, 
Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 


There  is  rust  upon  locks  and  hinges, 
And  mold  and  blight  on  the  walls, 

And  silence  faints  in  the  chambers, 
And  darkness  waits  in  the  halls,  — 

Waits,  as  all  things  have  waited, 
Since  she  went,  that  day  of  spring, 

Borne  in  her  pallid  splendor, 

To  dwell  in  the  Court  of  the  King  : 


THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH.  47 

With  lilies  on  brow  and  bosom, 

With  robes  of  silken  sheen, 
And  her  wonderful  frozen  beauty 

The  lilies  and  silk  between. 

Red  roses  she  left  behind  her, 

But  they  died  long,  long  ago,  — 
*Twas  the  odorous  ghost  of  a  blossom 

That  seemed  through  the  dusk  to  glow. 

The  garments  she  left  mock  the  shadows 

With  hints  of  womanly  grace, 
And  her  image  swims  in  the  mirror 

That  was  so  used  to  her  face. 

The  birds  make  insolent  music 
Where  the  sunshine  riots  outside ; 

And  the  winds  are  merry  and  wanton. 
With  the  Summer's  pomp  and  pride. 


48  THE  HOUSE   OF  DEA  TH. 

But  into  this  desolate  mansion, 
Where  Love  has  closed  the  door, 

Nor  sunshine  nor  summer  shall  enter, 
Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 


''SHE    WAS   WON  IN  AN  IDLE  DAK''     49 


"SHE   WAS   WON    IN   AN    IDLE   DAY.*' 

^HE  was  won  in  an  idle  day,  — 

Won  when  the  roses  were  red  in  June, 
And  the  world  was  set  to  a  drowsy  tune. 
Won  by  a  lover  who  rode  away. 

Summer  things  basked  in  the  summer  sun; 
Through  the  roses  a  vagrant  wind 
Stole,  their  passionate  hearts  to  find, 

Found  them,  and  kissed  them,  and  then  was  gone. 

Wooed  by  the  June  day*s  fervid  breath, 

Violets  opened  their  violet  eyes. 

Gazed  too  long  at  the  ardent  skies. 
And  swooned  with  the  dying  day  to  death. 


50      ''SHE   IVAS  WON  IN  AN  IDLE  DAY." 

Nothing  was  earnest,  and  nothing  was  true, — 
Winds  were  wanton,  and  flowers  were  frail ; 
And  the  idle  lover  who  told  his  tale. 

Warmed  by  the  June  sun  through  and  through, 

Kissed  her  lips  as  the  wind  the  rose,  — 
Kissed  them  for  joy  in  the  summer  day,  — 
And  then  was  ready  to  ride  away 

When  over  the  night  the  moon  arose. 

The  violets  died  with  the  day's  last  breath; 

The  roses  slept  when  the  wind  was  low; 

What  chanced  to  the  butterflies,  who  can  know? 
But  she  —  oh,  pity  her  —  waits  for  death  ! 


A   LIFE'S  LOSS.  S^ 


A   LIFE'S    LOSS. 

O  you  remember  the  summer  day 

You  found  me  down  by  the  ruined  mill  ? 
The  skies  were  blue,  and  the  waters  bright, 
And  shadows  glanced  on  the  windy  hill, 
And  the  stream  moaned  on. 


You  sat  by  my  side  on  the  moss-grown  log, 
Where  one  whom  I  loved  last  night  had  stood, 

I  heard  his  voice,  like  an  undertone. 
While  you  talked  to  me  in  that  solitude, 
-     And  the  stream  moaned  on. 

You  did  not  tell  me  your  heart  was  mine,  — 
You  only  said  that  my  face  was  fair, 

That  silks  and  satins  should  robe  my  form, 
And  jewels  should  flash  among  my  hair, 
And  the  stream  moaned  on. 


52  A   LIFE'S  LOSS, 

You  went  away  with  that  careless  air, 

And  smiled  as  you  uttered  your  light  good-by, 

But  the  wind  stole  down  from  the  frowning  hiU, 
And  stood  at  my  side  with  a  gasping  sigh, 
And  the  stream  moaned  on 


Vou  remember  the  pomp  of  our  bridal  morn,  — 
The  jewels  that  mocked  the  bright  sunshine. 

The  rustling  silks,  the  ringing  mirth, 
The  flush  of  roses,  the  flow  of  wine,  — 

While  the  crowd  looked  on. 

I  saw  a  presence  they  did  not  see,  — 

A  guest  whom  they  knew  not  of  was  there,  — ' 

Heart  of  my  heart,  he  came  to  mock 
My  bridal  vows  with  his  pale  despair. 

And  my  soul  moaned  on. 


A   LIFE'S  LOSS, 

You  won,  that  day,  what  you  bargained  for,  — 

My  hair  to  braid  your  jewels  in, 
My  form  to  deck  with  your  silken  robes, 

My  face  to  show  to  your  haughty  kin, 

But  my  soul  moaned  on. 


53 


Talk  not  of  love,  —  you  have  come  too  late  ! 

You  cannot  dispel  my  heart's  eclipse,  — 
Where  your  image  should  be  the  dead  is  shrined. 

And  no  voice  cries  from  the  death-cold  lips, 
Though  my  soul  moans  on. 

Some  summer  day  I  shall  wander  down 

Where  the  waters  flow  by  the  ruined  mill,  — 

Where  the  shadows  come,  and  the  shadows  go, 
There  at  the  foot  of  the  windy  hill, 

And  the  stream  moans  on. 


54  A   LIFE'S  LOSS. 

You  will  find  me  there,  'neath  the  whispering  wave, 
Colder  and  stiller  than  ever  before,  — 

The  dreams  I  dreamed  and  the  hopes  I  hoped 
Will  be  hushed  to  silence  for  evermore. 

Though  the  stream  moan  on. 


THE  SINGER.  55 


THE    SINGER. 


ITHIN  the  crimson  gloom 
Of  that  dim,  shaded  room 
I  heard  a  singer  sing. 


She  sang  of  life  and  death, 
Of  joys  that  end  with  breath, 

And  joys  the  end  doth  bring ; 

Of  passion's  bitter  pain, 
And  memory's  tears  like  rain. 

Which  will  not  cease  to  flow ; 

Of  the  deep  grave's  delights. 
Where  through  long  days  and  nights 

They  hear  the  green  things  grow, 


S6  THE  SINGER. 

Cool-rooted  flowers,  which  come 
So  near  to  that  still  home, 

Their  ways  the  dead  must  know  ; 

And  shivers  in  the  grass. 
When  winds  of  summer  pass, 

And  whisper,  as  they  go, 

Of  the  mad  life  above. 

Where  men  like  masquers  move ; 

Or  are  they  ghosts? — who  knows  ?- 

Sad  ghosts  who  cannot  die. 
And  watch  slow  years  go  by 

Amid  those  painted  shows. 

Who  knows  ?     For  on  her  tongue 
What  never  may  be  sung 

Seemed  trembling,  and  w^e  wait 


THE  SINGER,  $7 

To  catch  the  strain  complete, 
More  full,  but  not  more  sweet, 
Beyond  the  golden  gate. 


^*%^^5vj. 


5^  HOW  LONG? 


HOW    LONG? 

F  on  my  grave  the  summer  grass  were  growing, 
Or  heedless  winter  winds  across  it  blowing, 
Through  joyous  June  or  desolate  December, 
How  long.    Sweetheart,  how  long  would   you 
remember. 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 


For  brightest  eyes  would  open  to  the  summer, 
And  sweetest  smiles  would  greet  the  sweet  new-comer, 
And  on  young  lips  grow  kisses  for  the  taking 
When  all  the  summer  buds  to  bloom  are  breaking,  — 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

To  that  dim  land  where  sad-eyed  ghosts  walk  only, 
Where  lips  are  cold,  and  waiting  hearts  are  lonely, 


HOIV  LONGf  59 

I  would  not  call  you  from  your  youth's  warm  blisses ; 
Fill  up  your  glass  and  crown  it  with  new  kisses,  — 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

Too  gay,  in  Jime,  you  might  be  to  regret  me, 
And  living  lips  might  woo  you  to  forget  me  ; 
But,  ah,  Sweetheart,  I  think  you  would  remember 
When  winds  were  weary  in  your  life's  December,  — 
So  long,  dear  love,  so  long  ! 


^ 


6o  THE  SONG   OF  A   SUMMER. 


THE    SONG    OF    A   SUMMER. 


PLUCKED  an  apple  from  off  a  tree, 
Golden  and  rosy  and  fair  to  see,  — - 
The  sunshine  had  fed  it  with  warmth  and  light, 
The  dews  had  freshened  it  night  by  night, 
And  high  on  the  topmost  bough  it  grew, 
Where  the  winds  of  Heaven  about  it  blew ; 
And  while  the  mornings  were  soft  and  young 
The  wild  birds  circled,  and  soared,  and  sung,  — 
There,  in  the  storm  and  calm  and  shine. 
It  ripened  and  brightened,  this  apple  of  mine, 
Till  the  day  I  plucked  it  from  off  the  tree, 
Golden  and  rosy  and  fair  to  see. 

How  could  I  guess  'neath  that  daintiest  rind 
That  the  core  of  sweetness  I  hoped  to  find  — 


THE  SONG   OF  A   SUMMER.  6 1 

The  innermost,  hidden  heart  of  the  bliss, 
Which  dews  and  winds  and  the  sunshine's  kiss 
Had  tended  and  fostered  by  day  and  night  — 
Was  black  with  mildew,  and  bitter  with  blight ; 
Golden  and  rosy  and  fair  of  skin, 
Nothing  but  ashes  and  ruin  within  ? 
Ah,  never  again,  with  toil  and  pain. 
Will  I  strive  the  topmost  bough  to  gain,  — 
Though  its  wind-swung  apples  are  fair  to  see, 
On  a  lower  branch  is  the  fruit  for  me. 


^ 


62  IF, 


IF. 

HAT  had  I  been,  lost  Love,  if  you  had  loved  me  ? 

A  woman,  smiling  as  the  smiling  May, — 
As  gay  of  heart  as  birds  that  carol  gaily 

Their  sweet  young  songs  to  usher  in  the  day  — 


As  ardent  as  the  skies  that  brood  and  brighten 
O'er  the  warm  fields  in  summer's  happy  prime,  — 

As  tender  as  the  veiling  grace  that  softens 
The  harshest  shapes  in  twilight's  tender  time. 

Like  the  soft  dusk  I  would  have  veiled  your  harshness 
With  tendernesses  that  were  not  your  due,  — 

Your  very  faults  had  blossomed  into  virtues 
Had  you  known  how  to  love  me  and  be  true. 


IF.  e^ 

It  had  been  well  for  you,  —  for  me  how  blessed  ! 

But  shall  we  ask  the  wind  to  blow  for  aye 
From  one  same  quarter,  —  keep  at  full  for  ever 

The  white  moon  smiling  in  a  changeless  sky  ? 

Change  is  the  law  of  wind  and  moon  and  lover,  — 
And  yet,  1  think,  lost  Love,  had  you  been  true, 

Some  golden  fruits  had  ripened  for  your  plucking 
You  will  not  find  in  gardens  that  are  new. 


64  FIAT  JUSTITIA. 


FIAT    JUSTITIA. 

ES,  all  is  ended  now,  for  I  have  weighed  thee,  — 
Weighed  the  light  love  that  has  been  held 
so  dear,  —       - 
Weighed  word  and  look  and  smile,  that  have  betrayed 

thee. 
The  careless  grace  that  was  not  worth  a  tear. 

Holding  these  scales,  I  marvel  at  the  anguish 

For  thing  so  slight  that  long  my  heart  has  torn,  — 

For  God's  great  sun  the  prisoner's  eyes  might  languish. 
Not  for  a  torch  by  some  chance  passer  borne. 

I  do  not  blame  thee  for  thy  heedless  playing 

On  the  strong  chords  whose  answer  was  so  full,  — 

Do  children  care,  through  daisied  meadows  straying. 
What  hap  befalls  the  blossoms  that  they  pull  ? 


FIAT  yUSTITIA,  6$ 

Go  on,  gay  trifier  !     Take  thy  childish  pleasure : 
On  thee,  for  thee,  may  summer  always  shine : 

Too  stern  were  Justice,  should  she  seek  to  measure 
Thy  fitful  love  by  the  strong  pain  of  mine. 


66  AT  THE  LAST, 


AT    THE    LAST. 


OME  once,  just  once,,  dear  Love,  when  I  am 
dead, — 
Ah   God,   I  would   it   were    this   hour,    to- 
night, — 
And  look  your  last  upon  the  frozen  face 
That  was  to  you  a  summer's  brief  delight. 


The  silent  lips  will  not  entreat  you  then, 

Nor  the  eyes  vex  you  with  unwelcome  tears : 

The  low,  sad  voice  will  utter  no  complaint. 
Nor  the  heart  tremble  with  its  restless  fears. 

I  shall  be  still,  —  you  will  forgive  me  then 
For  all  that  I  have  been,  or  failed  to  be,  — 

Say,  as  you  look,  *'  Poor  Heart,  she  loved  me  well ; 
Will  any  other  be  so  true  to  me  V^ 


AT  THE  LAST.  67 

Then  bend  and  kiss  the  lips  that  will  not  speak,  — 
One  little  kiss  for  all  the  dear,  dead  days,  — 

Say  once,  "  God  rest  her  soul  1 "  then  go  in  peace,  — 
No  haunting  ghost  shall  meet  you  in  your  ways. 


68 


WHA  T  SHE  SAID  IN  HER   TOMB, 


WHAT    SHE    SAID    IN    HER    TOMB. 


OW,  at  last,  I  lie  asleep 

Where  no  morrows  break, — 
Why  take  heed  to  tread  so  soft  ?  ■ 
Fear  you  lest  I  wake  ? 


Time  there  was  when  I  was  red 

As  a  rose  in  June 
With  the  kisses  of  your  lips,  — 

Ah,  they  failed  me  soon. 


Now  they  would  not  warm  my  mouth 
Though  they  fell  like  rain  : 

I  am  marble,  dear ;  and  they 
Marble  cannot  stain. 


WHAT  SHE  SAID  IN  HER   TOMB,  69 

Ah,  if  you  had  loved  me  more, 

Been  content  to  wait, 
Some  time  you  had  found  the  key 

To  Love's  inmost  gate. 

Why,  indeed,  should  any  man 

Wait  for  Autumn  days. 
When  the  present  Summer  wooes 

To  her  rosy  ways  ? 

Only,  — now  I  lie  here  dead  ; 

I  shall  not  awake, 
And  you  need  not  tread  so  soft 

For  my  deaf  ears'  sake. 


^o 


A    SUMMER'S  GHOST. 


A    SUMMER'S    GHOST. 

F  that  old  Summer  can  you  still  recall 

The  pomp  wherewith  the  strong  sun  rose 
and  set : 

How  bright  the  moon  shone  on  the  shining  fields, 
What  wild,  sweet  blossoms  with  the  dew  were  wxt  ? 

Can  you  still  hear  the  merry  robins  sing, 
And  see  the  brave  red  lilies  gleam  and  glow, 

The  waiting  wealth  of  bloom,  the  reckless  bees 
That  woo  their  wild-flower  loves,  and  sting,  and  go  ? 

Can  you  still  hear  the  waves  that  round  the  shore 
Broke  in  soft  joy,  and  told  delusive  tales,  — 

"  We  go,  but  we  return  :  Love  comes  and  goes  ; 
And  eyes  that  watch  see  homeward-faring  sails." 


A   SUMMER'S  GHOST. 

"  *Twas  thus  in  other  seasons  !  "     Ah,  may  be  ! 

But  I  forget  them,  and  remember  this,  — 
A  brief,  warm  season,  and  a  fond,  brief  love, 

And  cold,  white  Winter  after  bloom  and  bliss. 


72  LOVER  AND  FRIEND, 


LOVER   AND    FRIEND    HAST   THOU    PUT 
FAR    FROM    ME. 

Psalm  Ixxxviii.  i8. 


HEAR  the  soft  September  rain  intone, 

And  cheerful  crickets  chirping  in  the  grass,  — 

I  bow  my  head,  I,  who  am  all  alone : 
The  light  winds  see,  and  shiver  as  they  pass. 


No  other  thing  is  so  bereft  as  I,  — 

The  rain-drops  fall,  and  mingle  as  they  fall,  — 
The  chirping  cricket  knows  his  neighbour  nigh,  — 

Leaves  sway  responsive  to  the  light  wind's  call. 

But  Friend  and  Lover  Thou  hast  put  afar, 
And  left  me  only  Thy  great,  solemn  sky,  — 

I  try  to  pierce  beyond  the  farthest  star 

To  search  Thee  out,  and  find  Thee  ere  I  die  ; 


LOVER  AND  FRIEND,  72> 

But  dim  my  vision  is,  or  Thou  dost  hide 

Thy  sacred  splendour  from  my  yearning  eyes  ; 

Be  pitiful,  O  God,  and  open  wide 
To  me,  bereft.  Thy  heavenly  Paradise. 

Give  me  one  glimpse  of  that  sweet,  far  off  rest, — 
Then  I  can  bear  Earth's  solitude  again  ; 

My  soul,  returning  from  that  heavenly  quest. 
Shall  smile,  triumphant,  at  each  transient  pain. 

Nor  would  I  vex  my  heart  with  grief  or  strife, 
Though  Friend  and  Lover  Thou  hast  put  afar, 

If  I  could  see,  through  my  worn  tent  of  Life, 
The  steadfast  shining  of  Thy  morning  star. 


CS^^i^ 


74  BEAUTY  FOR  ASHES. 


BEAUTY    FOR   ASHES. 

EAUTY  for  ashes  thou  hast  brought  me,  dear  ! 

A  time  there  was  when  all  my  soul  lay  waste, 

As  ere  the  dawn  the  earth  lies  dark  and  drear, 

Whereto  the  golden  feet  of  morn  make  haste. 


Like  morn  thou  earnest,  blessings  in  thy  hands. 
And  gracious  pity  round  thine  ardent  mouth, — 

Like  dews  of  morning  upon  waiting  lands, 
Thy  tender  tears  refreshed  my  spirit's  drouth. 

To-day  is  calm.     Far  off  the  tempest  raves 

That  long  ago  swept  dead  men  to  the  shore,  — 

I  can  forget  the  madness  of  the  waves,  — 

Against  my  hopes  and  me  they  break  no  more. 


BEAUTY  FOR  ASHES.  7S 

White  butterflies  flit  shining  in  the  sun,  — 
Red  roses  burst  to  bloom  upon  the  tree,  — 

Birds  call  to  birds  till  the  glad  day  is  done,  ' 
The  day  of  beauty  thou  hast  brought  to  me. 

Shall  I  forget,  O  gentle  heart  and  true. 

How  thy  fair  dawn  has  risen  on  my  night,  — 

Turned  dark  to  day,  all  golden  through  and  through,  — 
From  soil  of  grief  won  bloom  of  new  delight  ? 


^6  TO  MY  HEART, 


TO    MY    HEART. 

N  thy  long,  lonely  times,  poor  aching  heart ! 
When  days  are  slow,  and  silent  nights  are  sad, 
Take  cheer,  weak  heart,  remember  and  be  glad, 
For  some  one  loved  thee. 


Some  one,  indeed,  who  cared  for  fading  face, 
For  time-touched  hair,  and  weary-falling  arm. 
And  in  thy  very  sadness  found  a  charm 

To  make  him  love  thee. 

God  knows  thy  days  are  desolate,  poor  heart ! 
As  thou  dost  sit  alone,  and  dumbly  wait 
For  what  comes  not,  or  comes,  alas !  too  late. 
But  some  one  loved  thee. 


TO  MY  HEART.  77 

Take  cheer,  poor   heart,  remembering  what  he 
said, 
And  how  of  thy  lost  youth  he  missed  no  grace, 
But  saw  some  subtler  beauty  in  thy  face, 
So  well  he  loved  thee. 

It  may  be,  on  Time's  farther  shore,  the  dead 
Love  the  sweet  shades  of  those  they  missed  on  this, 
And  dream,  in  heavenly  rest,  of  earth's  lost  bliss,  — 
So  he  shall  love  thee. 

Till  then  take  cheer,  poor,  silent,  aching  heart ; 
Content  thee  with  the  face  he  once  found  fair, 
Mourn  not  for  fading  bloom  or  time-touched  hair, 
Since  he  hath  loved  thee. 


78  ALIEN  WATERS. 


ALIEN    WATERS. 


WANDERED  long  beside  the  alien  waters, 
For   summer    suns  were  warm,  and  winds 
were  dead : 

Fields  fair  as  hope  were  stretching  on  before  me, 
Forbidden  paths  were  pleasant  to  my  tread. 


From  boughs  that  hung  between  me  and  the  heavens 
I  gathered  summer  fruitage,  red  and  gold  : 

For  me,  the  idle  singers  sang  of  pleasure  : 
My  days  went  by  like  stories  that  are  told. 

On  my  rose-tree  grew  roses  for  my  plucking, 
As  red  as  love,  or  pale  as  tender  pain,  — 

I  found  no  thorns  to  vex  me  in  my  garlands  : 

Each  day  was  good,  and  no  rose  bloomed  in  vain. 


ALIEN  WATERS.  79 

•■ 
Sometimes  I  danced,  as  in  a  dream,  to  music. 

And  kept  quick  time  with  many  flying  feet, 
And  some  one  praised  me  in  the  music's  pauses, 

And  very  young  was  life,  and  love  was  sweet. 

How  could  I  listen  to  the  low  voice  calling, 

"  Come  hither,  —  leave  thy  music  and  thy  mirth  ?  *' 

How  could  I  stop  to  hear  of  far-off  Heaven  ? 
I  lived,  and  loved,  and  was  a  child  of  earth. 

Then  came  a  hand  and  took  away  my  treasures, 
Dimmed  my  fine  gold,  cut  my  fair  rose-tree  down. 

Changed  my  dance  music  into  notes  of  wailing, 
Quenched  the   bright  day,  and   turned   my  green 
fields  brown. 

Till,  walking  lonely  through  the  empty  places 
Where  Love  and  I  no  more  kept  holiday, 

My  sad  eyes,  growing  wonted  to  the  darkness, 
Beheld  a  new  light  shining  far  away : 


8o  ALIEN   WATERS. 

And  I  could  bear  my  hopes  should  lie  around  me, 
Dead  like  my  roses,  fall'n  before  their  time,  — 

For  well  I  knew  some  tender  Spring  would  raise 
them 
To  brighter  blossoming  in  Hope's  fair  clime. 


LOOKING  BACK,  8 1 


LOOKING    BACK. 


MAY  live  long,  but  some  old  days 

Of  dear,  deep  joy  akin  to  pain, — 
Some  suns  that  set  on  woodland  ways 
Will  never  rise  for  me  again. 
By  shining  sea,  and  glad,  green  shore 
That  frolic  waves  ran  home  to  kiss, 
Some  words  I  heard  that  nevermore 
Will  thrill  me  with  their  mystic  bliss. 

Oh  Love,  still  throbs  your  living  heart,  — 

You  have  not  crossed  death's  sullen  tide : 
A  deeper  deep  holds  us  apart: 

We  were  more  near  if  you  had  died,  — 
If  you  had  died  in  those  old  days 

When  light  was  on  the  shining  sea. 
And  all  the  fragrant  woodland  ways 

Were  paths  of  hope  for  you  and  me. 


82  LOOKING  BACK. 

Dead  leaves  are  in  those  woodland  ways,  — 

Cold  are  the  lips  that  used  to  kiss,  — 
'  T  were  idle  to  recall  those  days, 

Or  sigh  for  all  that  vanished  bliss. 
Do  you  still  wear  your  old-time  grace. 

And  charm  new  loves  with  ancient  wiles  ?  - 
Could  I  but  watch  your  faithless  face, 

I'd  know  the  meaning  of  your  smiles. 


A  PRODLEi\r.  83 


A    PROBLEM. 

Y  darling  has  a  merry  eye, 
And  voice  like  silver  bells: 
How  shall  I  win  her,  prithee,  say,  — 
By  what  magic  spells  ? 

If  I  frown,  she  shakes  her  head  ; 

If  I  weep,  she  smiles  : 
Time  would  fail  me  to  recount 

All  her  wilful  wiles. 

She  flouts  me  so,  —  she  stings  me  so, - 

Yet  will  not  let  me  stir,  — 
In  vain  I  try  to  pass  her  by, 

My  little  chestnut  bur. 


84  A   PROBLEM. 

When  I  yield  to  every  whim, 
She  straight  begins  to  pout. 

Teach  me  how  to  read  my  love, 
How  to  find  her  out ! 

For  flowers  she  gives  me  thistle-blooms,  - 
Her  turtle-doves  are  crows,  — 

I  am  the  groaning  weather-vane, 
And  she  the  wind  that  blows. 

My  little  love  I     My  teasing  love 
Was  woman  made  for  man,  — 

A  rose  that  blossomed  from  his  side  ? 
Believe  it  —  those  who  can. 


AT  A    WINDOIV,  8S 


AT   A   WINDOW. 

UST  a  flower  on  the  window-sill, 

That  a  kindly  visitor's  hand  has  brought, 
And  the  lame  boy,  sitting  there    patient   and 
still, 
Tastes  the  summer  with  beauty  fraught. 
And  greets  the  June  and  its  roses  at  will. 
And  gathers  a  blossom  with  every  thought. 

Just  a  bird,  with  its  bright,  quick  eye 

Glancing  in  at  the  window  there, 
Dropping  a  note  of  song  from  the  sky, 

And  off,  swift-winged,  on  the  summer  air; 
But  a  thousand  singers  with  him  go  by, 

And  sing,  and  the  boy  is  well  aware. 


86  AT  A   WINDOW, 

If  the  summer  comes  with  a  single  rose, 

And  in  one  bird's  note  sings  the  summer  choir, 

And  the  whole  bright  world  around  him  glows 
At  the  summoning  breath  of  a  boy's  desire, 

Shall  we  wait  for  reasons,  and  ask,  "  Who  knows  ? '' 
Of  souls  aglow  with  the  heavenly  fire? 


TO  A   LADY  IN  A   PICTURE,  Sj 


TO   A   LADY   IN   A   PICTURE. 


irriNG  in  that  picture, 
Smiling  night  and  day, 
Do  you  never  weary, 
Long  to  weep  or  pray? 


Though  your  dress  is  velvet, 
And  your  hair  is  gold, 

I  see  something  in  your  eyes 
That  you  have  not  told. 


^ 


88 


MV  CAPTIVE. 


MY    CAPTIVE. 


CAUGHT  a  little  bird,  and  I  shut  him  in  a 
cage, 
And  I  said,  "  Now,  my  pet,  I  love  thee 
dearly. 
Fold  thy  bright  wings,  nor  let  thy  fancy  range : 
Thou  'rt  mine  own,  so  sing,  I  pray  thee,  cheerly." 


But,  oh,  the  little  bird,  he  fluttered  still  his  wings. 
And  with  bright,  wild  eyes  he  never  ceased  to  watch 
me, 

And  I  only  heard  him  say,  "  'Tis  a  free  heart  that  sings,  — 
Open  my  door,  and  I  '11  sing  till  you  catch  me," 


MY  CAPTIVE.  89 

I  brought  him  dainty  food,  and  I  soothed  him  long  and 
well, 
But  the  timid  little  heart  ceased  not  to  tremble. 
I  decked  his  cage  with  flowers,  with  leaves  I  wrought  a 
spell. 
By  such  fond  device  his  capture  to  dissemble. 

But  still  he  missed  above  him  the  far  and  shining  sky, 
And  still  he  missed  about  him  the  free  wind's  blowing. 

He  beat  his  little  wings,  for  he  had  no  space  to  fly. 
And  his  bright,  wild  eyes  like  twin  stars  were  glowing. 

And  I  heard  his  little  heart,  as  it  throbbed  so  loud  and 
fast. 
And  my  love  and  my  pity  wrought  together. 
Till  I  opened  wide  his  door,  and  I  said,  "  Thy  thraldom  's 
past. 
Flyaway,  bright  wings,  and  seek  the  summer  weather." 


90  ^y   CAPTIVE. 

But  now  I  think  he  loves  me,  since  I  have  made  him 
free, — 

For  often,  oftentimes,  at  daybreak  or  at  gloaming, 
I  think  I  hear  a  song  that  seems  to  be  for  me,  — 

"Throw  wide  the  door,  to  keep  a  heart  from  roaming." 


lA 


A'OSES.  91 


ROSES. 

jAROLD,  on  a  summer  day, 

Gave  me  roses  for  my  hair,  — 
Roses  red,  and  roses  white, 
As  if  pale  with  Love's  despair. 

White  ones  for  my  brow,  he  said, 
Red  to  blush  beside  my  cheek,  — 

And  a  bud  to  whisper  me 

Something  that  he  dared  not  speak. 

Ah,  that  summer  day  is  over, 

And  its  brightness  comes  not  back  : 

Harold's  roses  something  held 
Other  roses,  seem  to  lack. 


92  ROSES. 

Blossoms  bloom  along  my  path 

Red  and  white  as  those  were  then,- 

But  the  words  that  Harold  spoke 
I  can  never  hear  again. 


DOWN  THE  RIVER.  93 


DOWN  THE   RIVER. 

TO   E.   M.    H. 

OWN  the  wonderful,  magical  river 
We  drifted  that  summer  night; 
And  we  almost  heard  the  shiver 
Of  the  wind  through  the  trees  on  our  right ; 
And  the  moon-rays  seemed  to  quiver 
On  your  face,  like  the  moonlight  white. 

And  the  tide  with  a  soft  resistance 
Withstood  our  keel  from  below; 

But  the  yacht  with  its  firm  insistence 
Dropped  down  to  the  city  below; 

And  we  saw  in  the  mystical  distance 
The  white  skiffs  come  and  go. 


94  DOWN  THE  RIVER, 

And  your  eyes  in  the  moonlight  tender 
Had  things  as  tender  to  say; 

And  your  hand,  so  timid  and  slender. 
In  mine  forgetfully  lay; 

And  how  my  dream  shall  I  render, 
As  we  drifted  into  the  bay? 

But  there  were  the  lights  of  the  city, 
And  in  vain  was  the  white  moon  white ; 

And  the  town,  with  its  glare,  had  no  pity 
For  the  dream  of  a  summer  night'; 

So  I  turn  the  dream  to  a  ditty 
To  sing  to  you.  Heart's  Delight ! 


LOVE'S  LAND.  95 


LOVE'S    LAND. 


N  the  South  is  Love's  land, 

Where  the  roses  blow, 

Where  the  summer  lingers 

Fearless  of  the  snow. 

There  no  winter  chills  it, 

So  its  life  is  long,  — 
Gentle  breezes  fan  it, 

Age  but  makes  it  strong." 

"  Nay,  fresh  roses  wither 

Where  the  sun  is  hot,  — 
Not  in  torrid  regions 

Blooms  Forget-me-not.  . 
Love  's  a  tender  blossom 

Which  the  Winter  chills, 
But  the  eager  Summer 

Kisses  it,  and  kills." 


96  HER   WINDOW. 


HER    WINDOW. 

UT  of  her  window,  that  morn  of  grace, 
She  leaned  her  radiant,  beautiful  face,  — 
The  sun,  ashamed,  went  into  a  cloud ; 
But,  glad  of  the  dawning,  the  birds  sang  loud. 


A  laggard  went  up  the  garden  walk, 
And  lingered  to  hear  the  murmuring  talk 
Of  flower  and  bee  and  every  comer 
That  fluttered  along  in  front  of  the  summei. 

He  quaffed  the  wine  of  the  morning  air, 
And  ^It  with  a  thrill  that  the  day  was  fair,  — 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  window's  height,  - 
"  Ah,  me,"  he  said,  "but  the  sun  is  bright ! " 


A  MADRIGAL.  97 


A   MADRIGAL. 

OVE  is  a  day,  Sweetheart,  shining  and  bright : 
It  hath  its  rose-dawn  ere  the  morning  light ; 
Its  glow  and  glory  of  the  sudden  sun  ; 
Its  noon-tide  heat  as  the  swift  hours  wear  on ; 
Its  fall  of  dew,  and  silver-lighted  night,  — 
Love  is  a  day,  Sweetheart,  shining  and  bright. 

Love  is  a  year,  Beloved,  bitter  and  brief : 
It  hath  its  spring  of  bud,  and  bloom  and  leaf ; 
Its  summer  burning  from  the  fervid  South 
Till  all  the  fields  lie  parched  and  faint  with  drouth ; 
Its  autumn,  when  the  leaves  sweep  down  the  gale. 
When  skies  are  grey,  and  heart  and  spirit  fail ; 
Its  winter  white  with  snow,  more  white  with  grief, — 
Love  is  a  year,  Beloved,  bitter  and  brief. 
7 


98  A  MADRIGAL. 

Love  is  a  life,  Sweetheart,  ending  in  death  : 
Is  it  worth  while  to  mourn  its  fleeting  breath,  — 
Light-footed  youth,  or  sad,  fore-casting  prime, 
Joy  of  young  hope,  or  grief  of  later  time  ? 
What  pain  or  pleasure  stays  its  parting  breath  ? 
Love  is  a  life.  Sweetheart,  ending  in  death. 


QUESTION.  99 


QUESTION. 

EAR  and  blessed  dead  ones,  can  you  look  and 
listen 
To  the  sighing  and  the  moaning  down  here 
below  ? 
Does  it  make  a  discord  in  the  hymns  of  Heaven,  — 
The  discord  that  jangles  in  the  life  you  used  to  know  ? 

When  we  pray  our  prayers  to  the  great  God  above  you, 
Does  the  echo  of  our  praying  ever  glance  aside  your 
way? 
Do  you  know  the  thing  we  ask  for,  and  wish  that  you 
could  give  it, 
You,  whose  hearts  ached  with  wishing  in  your  own 
little  day? 


lOO  QUESTION, 

Are  your  ears  deaf  with  praises,  you  blessed  dead  of 
Heaven, 
And  your  eyes  blind  with  glory,  that  you  cannot  see 
our  pain  ? 
If  you  saw,  if  you  heard,  you  would  weep  among  the 
angels, 
And  the  praises  and  the  glory  would  be  for  you  in 


Yet  He  listens  to  our  praying,  the  great  God  of  pity, 
As  He  fills  with  pain  the  measure  of  our  Life's  little 
day,— 
Could  He  bear  to  sit  and  shine  there,  on  His  white  throne 
in  Heaven, 
But  that  He  sees  the  end,  while  we  on\^  see  the  way  ? 


/  FAIN  WOULD   GO.  lOI 


I    FAIN    WOULD    GO. 

WAY  from  carking  care, 
From  passion  and  despair, 
From  hopes  that  but  delude, 
And  blasts  that  are  too  rude,  — 
From  friendships  that  betray, 
And  joys  that  pass  away. 
And  love  that  turns  to  hate 
In  hearts  left  desolate, 
I  fain  would  go. 

From  weary  days  and  nights. 
And  ghosts  of  lost  delights,  — 
Fair  phantoms  of  dead  days, 
That  wander  through  old  ways,  - 


I02  /  FAIN  WOULD   GO. 

From  parting's  bitter  pain, 
And  meeting's  transient  gain, 
And  death  that  mocks  us  so, 
With  glad  life's  overthrow,  — • 
I  fain  would  go, 

To  some  fair  land  and  far, 
Where  all  my  lost  ones  are, 
Where  smiles  shall  bloom  anew, 
And  friendship  shall  be  true. 
Where  falls  no  weary  night, 
Since  God  Himself  is  light,  — 
Across  the  soundless  sea 
To  that  far  land,  and  free, 
I  fain  would  go. 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE.  103 


THE    SPRING    IS    LATE. 

HE  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields,  — 
Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and  bare,— 
"  The  spring  is  late,''  she  said,  —  "  the  faithless 
spring. 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the  meadows  fair. 

"  Their  sweet  South  left  too  soon,  among  the  trees 
The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and  fro ; 

For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  —  their  memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them  so. 

"  From  'neath  a  sheltering  pine  some  tender  buds 
Looked  out,  and  saw  the  hollows  filled  with  snow ; 

On  such  a  frozen  world  they  closed  their  eyes  ; 

When  spring  is  cold,  how  can  the  blossoms  blow  ?  " 


104  THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 

She  watched  the  homeless  birds,  the  slow,  sad  spring. 
The  barren  fields,  and  shivering,  naked  trees : 

"  Thus  God  has  dealt  with  me,  his  child,"  she  said, — 
"  I  wait  my  spring-time,  and  am  cold  like  these. 

"  To  them  will  come  the  fulness  of  their  time ; 

Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make  the  meadows  fair ; 
Shall  I,  who  wait  like  them,  like  them  be  blest? 

I  am  His  own,  — doth  not  my  Father  care  ?  " 


SELFISH  PR  A  YER. 


SFXFISH    PRAYER. 

OW  we,  poor  players  on  Life's  little  stage, 
Thrust  blindly  at  each  other  in  our  rage, 
Quarrel  and  fret,  yet  rashly  dare  to  pray 
To  God  to  help  us  on  our  selfish  way. 


We  think  to  move  Him  with  our  prayer  and  praise. 
To  serve  our  needs ;  as  in  the  old  Greek  days 
Their  gods  came  down  and  mingled  in  the  fight 
With  mightier  arms  the  flying  foe  to  smite. 

The  laughter  of  those  gods  pealed  down  to  men, 
For  Heaven  was  but  earth's  upper  story  then 
Where  goddesses  about  an  apple  strove. 
And  the  high  gods  fell  humanly  in  love. 


I06  SELFISH  PRAYER, 

We  own  a  God  whose  presence  fills  the  sky,  — 
Whose' sleepless  eyes  behold  the  worlds  roll  by; 
Shall  not  His  memory  number,  one  by  one, 
The  sons  of  men,  who  calls  them  each  His  son? 


FOR  ME  ALONE,  107 


FOR   ME   ALONE. 

ECAUSE  your  eyes  are  blue,  your  lips  are  red, 
And  the  soft  hair  is  golden  on  your  head, 
And  your  sweet  smiling  can  make  glad  the 
day, 
And  on  your  cheeks  pink  roses  have  their  way, 
Should  I  adore  you? 

Since  other  maids  have  shining  golden  hair, 
And  other  cheeks  the  June's  pink  roses  wear, 
And  other  eyes  can  set  the  day  alight, 
And  other  lips  can  smile  with  youth's  delight,  — 
Why  bow  before  you? 

But  if  the  eyes  are  blue  for  me  alone, 
And  if  for  only  me  the  rose  has  blown. 
And  but  for  me  the  lips  their  sweet  smile  wear. 
Then  shall  you  mesh  me  in  your  golden  hair,  — 
I  will  adore  you. 


I08  FOR  ME  ALONE, 

And  as  my  saint,  my  soul's  one  shining  star, 
That  lights  my  darkness  from  its  throne  afar 
As  lights  the  summer  moon  the  waiting  sea, 
With  all  I  am,  and  all  I  strive  to  be, 
I  '11  bow  before  you. 


AD    TE  DOMINE.  109 


AD    TE    DOMINE. 

THOU  who  sendest  dewdrops  to  the  garden, 
Until  each  fragrant  bud  receives  its  own, 

Canst  Thou  not  look  on  human   hearts   and 
pardon 
To  waiting  loneliness  its  bitter  moan  ? 


The  flowers  can  drink  the  dawn,  —  it  hastens  to  them ; 

But  hearts  athirst  wait  sadly  for  their  hour, 
For  the  sweet  gift  that  may,  perchance,  undo  them,  — 

Too  fatal  sweet  a  dew  for  human  flower. 


no  IF  I  COULD  KEEP  HER  SO. 


IF    I    COULD    KEEP    HER    SO. 

UST  a  little  baby,  lying  in  my  arms,  — 
Would  that  I  could  keep  you,  with  your  baby 
charms ; 

Helpless,  clinging  fingers,  downy,  golden  hair, 
Where  the  sunshine  lingers,  caught  from  otherwhere  ; 
Blue  eyes  asking  questions,  lips  that  cannot  speak, 
Roly-poly  shoulders,  dimple  in  your  cheek  ; 
Dainty  little  blossom  in  a  world  of  woe. 
Thus  I  fain  would  ke^p  you,  for  I  love  you  so. 

Roguish  little  damsel,  scarcely  six  years  old,  — 
Feet  that  never  weary,  hair  of  deeper  gold ; 
Restless,  busy  fingers  all  the  time  at  play. 
Tongue  that  never  ceases  talking  all  the  day ; 


IF  I  COULD  KEEP  HER  SO.  in 

Blue  eyes  learning  wonders  of  the  world  about, 
Here  you  come  to  tell  them,  —  what  an  eager  shout !  — 
Winsome  little  damsel,  all  the  neighbours  know ; 
Thus  I  long  to  keep  you,  for  I  love  you  so. 

Sober  little  schoolgirl,  with  your  strap  of  books, 

And  such  grave  importance  in  your  puzzled  looks  ; 

Solving  weary  problems,  poring  over  sums. 

Yet  with  tooth  for  sponge-cake  and  for  sugar-glums ; 

Reading  books  of  romance  in  your  bed  at  night, 

Waking  up  to  study  with  the  morning  light ; 

Anxious  as  to  ribbons,  deft  to  tie  a  bow, 

Full  of  contradictions,  —  I  would  keep  you  so. 

Sweet  and  thoughtful  maiden,  sitting  by  my  side. 
All  the  world 's  before  you,  and  the  world  is  wide ; 
Hearts  are  there  for  winning,  hearts  are  there  to  break. 
Has  your  own,  shy  maiden,  just  begun  to  wake  ? 


112  IF  I  COULD  KEEP  HER  SO. 

Is  that  rose  of  dawning  glowing  on  your  cheek 
Telling  us  in  blushes  what  you  will  not  speak  ? 
Shy  and  tender  maiden,  I  would  fain  forego 
All  the  golden  future,  just  to  keep  you  so. 


Ah  !  the  listening  angels  saw  that  she  was  fair, 
Ripe  for  rare  unfolding  in  the  upper  air  ; 
Now  the  rose  of  dawning  turns  to  lily  white, 
And  the  close-shut  eyelids  veil  the  eyes  from  sight ; 
All  the  past  I  summon  as  I  kiss  her  brow,  — 
Babe,  and  child,  and  maiden,  all  are  with  me  now. 
Though  my  heart  is  breaking,  yet  God^slove  I  know,- 
Safe  among  the  angels,  I  would  keep  her  so. 


ANNIE'S  DA  UGH  TER,  i  1 3 


ANNIE'S    DAUGHIER. 

HE  lingering  charm  of  a  dream  that  has  fled, 
The  rose's  breath  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
The  echo  that  lives  when  the  tune  is  done, 
The  sunset  glories  that  follow  the  sun, 
Every  thing  tender  and  every  thing  fair 
That  was,  and  is  not,  and  yet  is  there,  — 
I  think  of  them  all  when  I  look  in  these  eyes. 
And  see  the  old  smile  to  the  young  lips  rise. 

I  remember  the  lilacs,  all  purple  and  white. 
And  the  turf  at  the  feet  of  my  heart's  delight. 
Sprinkled  with  daisies  and  violets  sweet — 
Daintiest  floor  for  the  daintiest  feet — 


114  ANNIE'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  the  face  that  was  fond,  and  foolish,  and  fair, 
And  the  golden  grace  of  the  floating  hair, 
And  the  lips  where  the  glad  smiles  came  and  went, 
And  the  lashes  that  shaded  the  eyes'  content. 

I  remember  the  pledge  of  the  red  young  lips 
And  the  shy,  soft  touch  of  the  finger-tips. 
And  the  kisses  I  stole,  and  the  words  we  spoke, 
And  the  ring  I  gave,  and  the  coin  we  broke, 
And  the  love  that  never  should  change  or  fail 
Though  the  earth  stood  still  or  the  stars  turned  pale ; 
And  again  I  stand,  when  I  see  these  eyes, 
A  glad  young  Fool,  in  my  Paradise. 

For  the  earth  and  the  stars  remained  as  of  old. 
But  the  love  that  had  been  so  warm  grew  cold. 
Was  it  She  ?  Was  it  I  ?  —  I  don't  remember : 
Then  it  was  June,  —  it  is  now  December. 


ANNIE'S  DAUGHTER,  1 15 

But  again  I  dream  the  old  dream  over, 
My  Annie  is  young,  and  I  am  her  lover 
When  I  look  in  this  Annie's  gentle  eyes 
And  see  the  old  smile  to  the  young  lips  rise. 


Il6  LOOKING  INTO   THE  WELL, 


LOOKING    INTO    THE    WELL. 

P  in  the  maples  the  robins  sung, 

The  winds  blew  over  the  locusts  high, 
And  along  the  path  by  their  boughs  o'erhung 

We  wandered  gaily,  Lulu  and  I,  — 
Wandered  along  in  pleasant  talk, 

Pausing  our  nursery  tales  to  tell, 
Till  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  shaded  walk 

And  sat,  at  last,  by  the  moss-grown  well. 
She  was  a  child,  and  so  was  I  : 

It  mattered  not  that  we  told  our  love,  — 
Whispered  it  there,  with  no  one  nigh 

Save  birds  that  sang  in  the  trees  above. 
I  looked  down  into  her  shy  blue  eyes, 

She  at  my  face  in  the  shaded  well : 
I  saw  the  glow  to  her  fair  cheek  rise, 

Like  pink  in  the  heart  of  an  ocean  shell. 


LOOKING  INTO   THE    WELL,  llj 

Again  in  the  trees  the  robins  sung ; 

The  gold  had  deepened  upon  her  hair  ; 
The  locusts  over  the  pathway  hung 

To  look  at  her  face  so  still  and  fair. 
I  said  no  word  :  I  sat  by  her  side 

Contented  to  hold  her  hand  in  mine 
Dreaming  of  love  and  a  fair  young  bride,  — 

Visions  that  truth  would  have  made  divine. 
The  robin's  song  took  a  clearer  tone, 

The  sky  was  a  tenderer,  deeper  blue  : 
Her  face  in  the  limpid  waters  shone,  — 

I  thought  her  eyes  were  holy  and  true. 


I  walked  alone  to  the  shaded  well 

When  locusts  bloomed  in  the  next  year's 
June,  — 

The  shadows  along  my  pathway  fell, 
The  wild  birds  sang  a  sorrowful  tune. 


Il8  LOOKING  INTO   THE   WELL, 

She  had  given  her  shining  hair's  young  gold, 

Her  holy  brow  and  her  eyes  of  blue, 
The  form  I  had  scarcely  dared  to  fold, 

To  a  wealthy  suitor  who  came  to  woo : 
Had  sold,  for  jewels  and  land  and  name, 

Youth  and  beauty  and  love  and  grace,  — 
Alone  I  cursed  the  sin  and  shame. 

And  started  to  see  my  own  dark  face 
Mirrored  there  in  the  well  below. 

With  its  haggard  cheek  and  its  lines  of  care, 
Where  I  once  had  seen  a  girlish  brow 

And  shy  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

Years  have  passed  since  that  summer  day 
Went  over  the  hills  with  its  silent  tread : 

I  walk  alone  where  its  glory  lay,  — 
1  am  lonely,  and  Lulu  is  dead. 

Dust  is  thick  on  her  shining  hair, 
A  shroud  is  folded  across  her  breast, 


LOOKING  INTO    THE    WELL, 

The  winds  blow  over  the  locusts  where 

She  lies  at  last,  alone  and  at  rest. 
Youth  and  beauty,  and  love  and  grace, 

Wealth  and  station,  joy  and  pain, — 
If  she  dream  at  all  in  that  lonely  place, 

She  will  know,  at  length,  that  her  life  was  vain. 

I  do  not  think  of  her  heart's  disgrace, 

Looking  into  the  waters  there ; 
For  I  seem  to  see  once  more  a  face 

With  shy  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
Out  among  men  she  walks  by  my  side  — 

For  me  she  lives  whom  the  world  calls  dead,  - 
I  talk  at  night  to  my  shadow  bride, 

And  pillow  in  dreams  her  golden  head. 
They  broke  her  heart,  —  so  the  gossips  tell, — 

Who  sold  her  hand  for  wealth  and  a  name ; 
But  I  see  her  face  in  the  cool,  deep  well, 

And  its  innocent  beauty  is  still  the  same. 


119 


T20  LIKE  A    CHILD. 


LIKE   A   CHILD. 


j] LAYING  there  in  the  sun,  chasing  the  butter- 
flies, 
Catching  his  golden  toy,  holding  it  fast  till  it 
dies, 
Singing  to  match  the  birds,  calling  the  robins  at  will. 
Glancing  here  and  there,  never  a  moment  still,  — 
Like  a  child. 

Going  to  school  at  last,  learning  to  read  and  write, 
Puzzled  over  his  slate,  busy  from  morn  till  night, 
Striving  to  win  a  prize,  careless  when  it  is  won, 
Finding  his  joy  in  the  strife,  not  in  the  thing  that 's  done. 

Busy  in  eager  trade,  buying,  and  selling  again. 
Chasing  a  golden  prize,  glad  of  a  transient  gain, 
Always  beginning  anew,  never  the  long  task  done, 
Just  as  it  used  to  be  with  the  butterfly  in  the  sun. 


LIKE  A    CHILD.  121 

Seeking  a  woman's  heart,  winning  it  for  his  own, 
Then,  too  busy  for  love,  letting  it  turn  to  stone : 
Sure  of  his  plighted  troth,  what  more  had  a  wife  to  ask  ? 
Is  he  not  doing  for  her  each  day  his  daily  task  ? 

A  child,  to   pine  and  complain,  —  a  child,  to  grow  so 

pale, — 
For  want  of  some  foolish  words  shall  the  faith  of  a  woman 

fail  ? 
Words!  he  said  them  once, — what  need  of  anything 

more  ? 
Does  one  who  has  entered  a  room  go  back  and  wait  at 

the  door? 

Baby  Mary  and  Kate  never  can  climb  his  knee : 
Motherly  arms  are  open,  —  but  "  Father 's  busy,  you  see." 
.  Too  busy  to  stop  to  hear  a  babble  of  broken  talk. 
To  mend  the  jumping-jack  or  make  the  new  doll  walk. 


122  I.IKE  A   CHILD, 

So  busy  that  when  Death  comes  he  pleads  for  a  little 

delay, 
If  not  to  finish  his  work,  at  the  least  a  word  to  say,  — 
A  word  to  wife  and  child,  a  sentence  to  tell  the  truth. 
That  he  loves  them  now,  at  the  last,  with  the  passionate 

heart  of  youth. 

The  kisses  of  Death  are  cold,  and  they  turn  his  lips  to 

stone : 

Out  of  the  warm,  bright  world  the  man  goes  all  alone. 

Do  Angels  wait  for  him  there,  over  the  soundless  sea? 

He  goes,  as  he  came,   all  helpless,  to  a  new  world's 

mystery  — 

Like  a  child. 


A    SONG  IN  THE    WOOD.  123 


A   SONG    IN    THE   WOOD. 

FOUND  a  shy  little  violet  root 

Half  hid  in  the  woods,  on  a  day  of  spring, 
And  a  bird  flew  over,  and  looked  at  it,  too, 

And  for  joy,  as  he  looked,  he  began  to  sing. 


The  sky  was  the  tenderest  blue  above,  — 
And  the  flower  like  a  bit  of  the  sky  below ; 

And  between  them  the  wonderful  winds  of  God 
On  heavenly  errands  went  to  and  fro. 

Away  from  the  summer,  and  out  of  the  South 
The  bird  had  followed  a  whisper  true. 

As  out  from  the  brown  and  desolate  sod 

Stepped  the  shy  little  blossom,  with  eyes  of  blue. 


124  A   SONG  IN  THE  WOOD, 

And  he  sang  to  her,  in  the  young  spring  day, 
Of  all  the  joy  in  the  world  astir; 

And  her  beauty  and  fragrance  answered  him, 
While  the  spring  and  he  bent  over  her. 


^^i 


V  ^% 


MV  BOV,  125 


MY    BOY. 

HAD  a  little  bird  once. 
But  he  has  flown  away 

I  had  a  little  boy  once, 
But  ah,  he  did  not  stay. 


What  do  they  up  in  Heaven, 
That  Bird  and  Boy  should  fly, 

And  leave  my  home  so  empty 
To  seek  the  far-off  sky  ? 

What  do  they  up  in  Heaven  ?  — 
Perchance  the  angels  sing. 

And,  when  they  heard  that  music, 
My  Bird  and  Boy  took  wing. 


126  MV  BOV. 

The  heavenly  flowers  bloom  always, 
The  skies  are  always  bright, 

And  all  the  little  children 

Play  there  from  morn  till  night. 

But  do  they  never  weary, 
And  long  to  go  to  rest, 

Like  little  human  children, 
Upon  a  mother's  breast  ? 

My  home  and  arms  are  empty, 
My  longing  heart  is  sore, 

Since  they  who  sought  the  summei 
Come  back  to  me  no  more. 


How  softly  falls  the  twilight,  — 
The  sunset  fires  are  out : 

A  wind  that  comes  from  Heaven 
Blows  slowly  round  about. 


AfY  BOY,  127 

I  close  my  eyes  and  listen, 

And  presently  I  hear 
A  small  voice  through  the  darkness 

Sigh,  "  Mother  —  I  am  near. 

"  Come,  take  me  in,  dear  mother, 

And  rock  me  as  of  old : 
I  used  to  be  so  happy 

Within  your  tender  hold ! 

"  There  sorrow  cannot  find  me. 

And  pain  shall  pass  me  by,  — 
When  you  enfold  who  love  me, 

What  danger  can  come  nigh  ? 

"  So  safe  I  was  in  Heaven, 

So  bright  the  shining  days ! 
But,  from  afar,  your  weeping 

Disturbed  the  hymns  of  praise. 


128  MV  BOV. 

"  Till  the  dear  Lord  and  gentle 
Sent  me  to  soothe  your  pain, 

And,  if  you  fain  would  keep  me, 
He  bids  me  to  remain." 


I  kissed  his  tender  eyelids, 

I  laid  him  on  my  heart ; 
And  yet,  when  came  the  dawning, 

I  prayed  him  to  depart. 

I  feared  the  unknown  future, 
I  feared  the  paths  untried,  — 

How  dared  I  keep  my  darling 
When  Heaven  was  opened  wide  ? 

But,  ah,  my  heart  is  lonely 

Since  Boy  and  Bird  have  fled,  — 
I  hear  the  silence  only. 

And  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


TROTHPLTGHT,  1 29 


TROTHPLIGHT. 


[For  the  Golden  Wedding  0/  a  Husband  thirty-seven  ^ears  blind ^ 


BROUGHT  her  home,  my  bonny  bride, 

Just  fifty  years  ago  ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright. 
Her  step  was  light, 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low. 

In  April  was  our  wedding-day,  — 

The  maiden  month,  you  know, 

Of  tears  and  smiles. 

And  wilful  wiles, 

And  flowers  that  spring  from  snow. 


1 30  TRO  THP LIGHT, 

My  love  cast  down  her  dear,  dark  eyes 
As  if  she  fain  would  hide 

From  my  fond  sight 

Her  own  delight, 

Half  shy  yet  happy  bride. 


But  blushes  told  the  tale,  instead, 

As  plain  as  w^ords  could  speak, 

In  dainty  red 

That  overspread 

My  darling's  dainty  cheek. 


For  twice  six  years  and  more  I  watched 
Her  fairer  grow  each  day,  — 

My  babes  were  blest 

Upon  her  breast. 

And  she  was  pure  as  they. 


TROTHPLIGHT.  I3T 

And  then  an  angel  touched  my  eyes, 
And  turned  my  day  to  night, 

That  fading  charms 

Or  time's  alarms 

Might  never  vex  my  sight. 

Thus  sitting  in  the  dark  I  see 

My  darling  as  of  yore,  — 
With  blushing  face 
And  winsome  grace, 

Unchanged,  for  evermore. 

Full  fifty  years  of  young  and  fair ! 

To  her  I  pledge  my  vow 
Whose  spring-time  grace 
And  April  face 

Have  lasted  until  now. 


132  THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW. 


THE    HOUSE    IN    THE    MEADOW. 


T  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow, 

The  house  so  mossy  and  brown, 
With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys. 
And  the  grey  roof  sloping  down. 


The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it, 

The  trees  a  century  old  j 
And  the  winds  go  chaunting  through  them, 

And  the  sunbeams  sift  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  meadows, ' 

The  roses  bloom  on  the  hill, 
And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pasture 

The  herds  are  feeding  at  will. 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW.  133 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchen, 

The  old  folk  sit  in  the  sun 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  woodbine 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  grew  up  and  left  them, — 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone, 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  are  failing 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood, 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care, 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal, 

How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 
She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 

In  the  morning's  rosy  light :  — 


134        I^E  HOUSE   IN    THE   MEADOW, 

Oh,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever, 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  has  fled ; 

And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  shines  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams,  once  vanished, 
,    Come  back  in  her  winter  time 
Till  her  feeble  pulses  tremble 

With  the  thrill  of  spring-time's  prime. 

And,  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
She  thinks  how  the  trees  have  grown 

Since,  clad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes'  bright  azure, 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold. 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  nor  cold. 


THE  HOUSE  IN   THE  MEADOW,  135 


They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine 

Till  the  day  was  almost  done, 
And  then,  at  its  close,  an  angel 

Stole  over  the  threshold  stone.    . 

He  folded  their  hands  together, 

He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm, 

And  their  last  breath  floated  outward 
Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm. 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mystical  road 
That  leads  to  the  Beautiful  City 

Whose  Builder  and  Maker  is  God. 

Perchance  in  that  miracle  country 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back. 

And  the  flowers  of  the  vanished  spring-time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 


136  THE  HOUSE  IN   THE  MEADOW. 

One  draught  from  the  living  waters 
Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime  ; 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlasted  time. 

But  the  shapes  that  they  left  behind  them, 
The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair,  — 

Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 
The  angel  had  printed  there,  — 

We  will  hide  away  'neath  the  willows 
When  the  day  is  low  in  the  west, 

Where  the  sunbeams  cannot  find  them 
Nor  the  winds  disturb  their  rest ; 

And  we  '11  suffer  no  tell-tale  tombstone, 
With  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 

O'er  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer 
In  the  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 


FROM  DUSK  TO  DAWN,  1 37 


•  FROM    DUSK    TO    DAWN. 

T  was  just  at  the  close  of  a  summer  day, 

When  the  fair,  young  moon  in  the  east  was  up, 
And  falling,  as  falls  the  peace  of  God, 
The  dew  dropped  balm  in  the  wild-flower's 
cup. 


And  soft  south  winds  touched  the  weary  brow 
Of  a  woman  who  leaned  on  a  cottage  gate 

And  lingered  to  catch  the  low,  sweet  call 
Of  a  late  bird  singing  home  to  his  mate. 

From  within  she  heard  the  household  talk. 
As  if  each  to  other  were  true  and  dear, 

And  after  her,  down  the  lonesome  street. 
Followed  the  sound  of  mirthful  cheer. 


138  FROM  DUSK   TO  DAWN, 

They  were  blest,  she  knew,  in  their  homely  peace,  — 
A  sad  smile  trembled  about  her  mouth,  — 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  for  some  poor  souls 
There  be  full  wells,  though  the  rest  have  drouth." 

She  saw  the  children  about  the  doors. 
With  fond  young  lips  for  mothers  to  kiss. 

And  from  every  home,  as  she  passed  along, 
She  caught  some  cadence  of  household  bliss. 

Till  she  came,  at  last,  to  her  own  low  roof. 
Where  she  and  a  ghost  dwelt  face  to  face,  — 

The  ghost  of  her  days  of  joy  and  youth, 
The  only  guest  in  that  lonesome  place. 

They  talked  together  of  all  the  past,  — 

She  and  the  ghost,  in  the  white  moonlight,  — 

Till  the  pale  guest's  face  like  an  angel's  grew, 
An  old-time  glory  had  made  it  bright. 


FROM  DUSK   TO   DAWN, 

When  the  dawn  arose,  they  both  were  gone,  — 
On  the  bed  a  shape  like  the  woman's  lay,  — 

But  she,  with  the  ghost  of  the  gay,  glad  past, 
To  some  land  of  shadows  had  wandered  away  : 

A  land  where  she  found  the  lost  again,  — 

Where  youth  was  waiting,  and  love  was  sweet, 

And  all  the  joys  she  had  buried  once 
Sprang  up  like  blossoms  about  her  feet. 


139 


I40  THERE, 


THERE. 


O  any  hearts  ache  there,  beyond  the  peaceful 
river  ? 
Do  fond  souls  wait,  with  longing  in  their  eyes, 
For  those  who  come  not,  will  not  come,  forever,  — 
For  some  wild  hope  whose  dawn  will  never  rise  ? 

Do  any  love  there  still,  beyond  the  silent  river, 
The  ones  they  loved  in  vain,  this  side  its  flow  ? 

Does  the  old  pain  make  their  heart-strings  ache  and 
quiver  ?  — 
I  shall  go  home,  some  day,  go  home  and  know. 

The  hill-tops  are  bright  there,  beyond  the  shining  river, 
And  the  long  glad  day,  it  never  turns  to  night,  — 

They  must  be  blest,  indeed,  to  bear  the  light  for  ever, 
Grief  longs  for  darkness  to  hide  its  tears  from  sight. 


THERE,  141 

Are  tears  turned  to  smiling,  beyond  the  blessed  river, 
And  mortal  pain  and  passion  drowned  in  its  flow  ?  — 

Then  all  we  who  sit  on  its  hither  bank  and  shiver, 
Let  us  rejoice,  —  we  shall  go  home  and  know. 


142  SOMEBODY'S  CHILD. 


SOMEBODY'S    CHILD. 

UST  a  picture  of  Somebody's  child,  — 
Sweet  face  set  in  its  golden  hair, 
Violet  eyes,  and  cheeks  of  rose, 
Rounded  chin,  with  a  dimple  there, 


Tender  eyes  where  the  shadows  sleep, 
Lit  from  within  by  a  secret  ray,  — 

Tender  eyes  that  will  shine  like  stars 

When  love  and  womanhood  come  this  way : 

Scarlet  lips  with  a  story  to  tell,  — 
Blessed  be  he  who  shall  find  it  out, 

Who  shall  learn  the  eyes'  deep  secret  well. 
And  read  the  heart  with  never  a  doubt. 


SOMEBODY'S  CHILD.  .    143 

Then  you  will  tremble,  scarlet  lips, 

Then  you  will  crimson,  loveliest  cheeks : 

Eyes  will  brighten  and  blushes  will  burn 
When  the  one  true  lover  bends  and  speaks. 

But  she  's  only  a  child  now,  as  you  see,  . 

Only  a  child  in  her  careless  grace  : 
When  Love  and  Womanhood  come  this  way 

Will  any  thing  sadden  the  flower-like  face  ? 


144  ^    WOMAN'S  WAITING. 


A   WOMAN'S   WAITING. 

NDER  the  apple-tree  blossoms,  in  May, 
Robert  and  I  watched  the  sun  go  down  : 
Behind  us  the  road  stretched  back  to  the  East, 
On  through  the  meadows  to  Danbury  town. 


Silent  we  sat,  for  our  hearts  were  full, 

Silently  watched  the  reddening  sky. 
And  saw  the  clouds  across  the  west 

Like  the  phantoms  of  ships  sail  silently. 

Robert  had  come  with  a  story  to  tell, 
I  knew  it  before  he  had  said  a  word,  — 

It  looked  from  his  eyes,  and  it  shadowed  his  face,  — 
He  was  going  to  march  with  the  Twenty-third. 


A    WOMAN'S   WAITING,  145 

We  had  been  "neighbours  from  childhood  up, 

Gone  to  school  by  the  self-same  way, 
Climbed  the  same  steep  woodland  paths, 

Knelt  in  the  same  old  church  to  pray. 

We  had  wandered  together,  boy  and  girl, 

Where  wild  flowers  grew  and  wild  grapes  hung. 

Tasted  the  sweetness  of  summer  days 

When  hearts  were  true  and  life  was  young. 

But  never  a  love  word  had  crossed  his  lips, 

Never  a  hint  of  pledge  or  vow, 
Until,  as  the  sun  went  down  that  night, 

His  tremulous  kisses  touched  my  brow:  — 

"  Jenny,'*  he  said,  "  I  Ve  a  work  to  do 
For  God  and  my  country  and  the  right,  — 

True  hearts,  strong  arms,  are  needed  now,  — 
I  must  not  linger  when  others  fight. 


14^  A    WOMAIV'S  WAITLVG. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  pledge  to  cheer  me  on,  — 
A  hope  to  look  forward  to,  by  and  by  ? 

Will  you  wait  for  me,  Jenny,  till  I  come  back  ?  " 
"  I  will  wait,"  I  answered,  "  until  I  die." 

The  May  moon  rose  as  we  walked  that  night 
Back  through  the  meadows  to  Danbury  town, 

And  one  star  rose  and  shone  by  her  side,  — 
Calmly  and  sweetly  they  both  looked  down. 

The  scent  of  blossoms  was  in  the  air, 

The  sky  was  blue  and  the  eve  was  bright, 

And  Robert  said,  as  he  walked  by  my  side, 
"  Old  Danbury  town  is  fair  to-night. 

"  I  shall  think  of  it,  Jenny,  when  far  away, 
Placid  and  still  'neath  the  moon  as  now, — 

I  shall  see  it.  Darling,  in  many  a  dream, 
And  you  with  the  moonlight  on  your  brow." 


A    WOMAN'S   WAITING.  147 

No  matter  what  else  were  his  parting  words,  — 

They  are  mine  to  treasure  until  I  die, 
With  the  clinging  kisses  and  lingering  looks, 

The  tender  pain  of  that  fond  good  bye. 

I  did  not  weep,  —  I  tried  to  be  brave  : 

I  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight,  — 

Then  suddenly  all  the  world  grew  dark. 
And  I  was  blind  in  the  bright  May  night. 

Blind  and  helpless  I  slid  to  the  ground 
And  lay  with  the  night-dews  on  my  hair, 

Till  the  moon  was  down  and  the  dawn  was  up, 
And  the  fresh  May  morn  rose  clear  and  fair. 

He  was  taken  and  I  was  left,  — 

Left  to  wait  and  to  watch  and  pray,  — 

Till  there  came  a  message  over  the  wires 
Chilling  the  air  of  the  August  day :  — 


148  A    WOMAN'S  WAITING. 

Killed  in  a  skirmish  eight  or  ten,  — 

Wounded  and  helpless  as  many  more, — 

All  of  them  our  Connecticut  men,  — 
From  the  little  town  of  Danbury,  Four. 

But  I  only  saw  a  single  nanle,  — 

Of  one  who  \vas  all  the  world  to  me  : 

I  promised  to  wait  for  him  till  I  died,  — 
O  God,  O  Heaven,  how  long  will  it  be  ? 

1863. 


JOHN  A,   ANDREW,  149 

JOHN    A.   ANDREW. 
1867. 

LARGE  of  heart,  and  grand,  and  calm, 
Who  held  the  helm  of  state  so  long, 

Our  plaining  mingles  with  our  praise. 
Our  sorrow  sanctifies  our  song. 

Clear  eyes,  kind  lips  so  silent  now, 

Ears  deaf  to  all  our  worldly  din, 
Great  soul  which  has  not  left  its  peer, 

We  would  the  grave-sod  had   shut  in 

Some  lesser  man,  and  we,  to-day, 
Had  thy  strong  will  to  urge  us  on. 

Thy  brain  to  plan,  thy  hand  to  help, 
Thy  cheerful  voice  to  say  "  well  done ! " 


150  JOHN  A,   ANDREW, 

But  whatsoe'er  we  do  of  good, 

In  doing  it  we  honor  thee  ; 
We  follow  where  our  leader  led,  — 

Can  he  look  down  from  heaven  and  see  ? 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  ''IF.''  151 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  "IF." 


|HERE  is  not  much,  indeed,  that  I  can  say 
Since  "  If "  was   the   sole    country  of    our 
dreams. 

And  at  its  gate  one  stood  to  bar  the  way 
To  that  glad  land,  those  silver-shining  streams. 

I  know,  dear  Heart,  how  fair  that  country  is,  — 
Its  rivers  flow  through  meadows  green  and  still, 

Its  skies  bend  lovingly  o'er  lovers'  bliss, 

No  cold  winds  blow  there,  and  no  winters  chill. 

There  would  we  fain  have  wandered,  thou  and  I,  — 
But  the  strong  Angel  met  us  at  its  gate  : 

He  heeded  not  Love's  prayer,  or  Passion's  cry,  — 
"  Oh,  fools  and  mad,"  he  said,  "you  come  too  late." 


152  FOR    CUPID  DEAD. 


FOR    CUPID    DEAD. 

HEN    Love  is   dead,  what  more   but  funeral 
rites,  — 
To  lay  his  sweet  corse  lovingly  to  rest, 
To  cover  him  with  rose  and  eglantine, 
And  all  fair  posies  that  he  loved  the  best  ? 


What  more,  but  kisses  for  his  close-shut  eyes. 
His  cold,  still  lips  that  never  more  will,  speak, — 

His  hair,  too  bright  for  dust  of  death  to  dim. 
The  flush  scarce  faded  from  his  frozen  cheek? 

What  more,  but  tears  that  will  not  warm  his  brow. 
Although  they  burn  the  eyes  from  whence  they  start  ? 

No  bitter  weeping  or  more  bitter  words 

Can  rouse  to  one  more  throb  that  pulseless  heart. 


FOR   CUPID  DEAD.  1 53 

So  dead  he  is,  who  once  was  so  alive ! 

In  summer,  when  the  ardent  days  were  long. 
He  was  as  warm  as  June,  as  gay  and  glad 

As  any  bird  that  swelled  its  throat  with  song. 

So  dead  I  yet  all  things  were  his  ministers,  — 
All  birds  and  blossoms,  and  the  joyous  June  : 

Would  they  had  died,  and  kept  sweet  Love  alive  I 
Since  he  is  gone,  the  world  is  out  of  tune. 


^3^^ 


154  IV E  LAV  US  DOWN  TO  SLEEP, 


WE    LAY    US    DOWN    TO    SLEEP. 


E  lay  us  down  to  sleep, 

And  leave  to  God  the  rest, 
Whether  to  wake  and  weep 
Or  wake  no  more  be  best. 


Why  vex  our  souls  with  care  ? 

The  grave  is  cool  and  low,  — 
Have  we  found  life  so  fair 

That  we  should  dread  to  go  ? 

We  Ve  kissed  love's  sweet,  red  lips^ 
And  left  them  sweet  and  red : 

The  rose  the  wild  bee  sips 
Blooms  on  when  he  is  dead. 


WE  LAY  US  DOWN  TO  SLEEP,  155 

Some  faithful  friends  we  've  found, 

But  they  who  love  us  best, 
When  we  are  under  ground. 

Will  laugh  on  with  the  rest. 

No  task  have  we  begun 

But  other  hands  can  take  : 
No  work  beneath  the  sun 

For  which  we  need  to  wake. 

Then  hold  us  fast,  sweet  Death, 

If  so  it  seemeth  best 
To  Him  who  gave  us  breath 

That  we  should  go  to  rest 

We  lay  us  down  to  sleep, 

Our  weary  eyes  we  close  : 
Whether  to  wake  and  weep 

Or  wake  no  more.  He  knows. 


SONNETS. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  159 


THE   NEW   DAY. 


HEN  the  great  sun  sets  the  glad  East  aflame, 
The  lingering  stars  are  swiftly  put  to  flight ; 
For  Day,  triumphant,  overthrows  the  night, 
And  mocks  the  lights  that  twinkled  till  he  came. 
The  waning  moon  retires  in  sudden  shame ; 
And  all  the  air,  from  roseate  height  to  height, 
Quivers  with  wings  of  birds,  that  take  the  light 
To  jubilant  music  of  one  tender  name. 

So  Thou  hast  risen,  —  Thou  who  art  my  day; 

And  every  lesser  light  has  ceased  to  shine. 

Pale  stars,  confronted  by  this  dawn  of  thine, 
Like  night  and  gloom  and  grief  have  passed  away ; 

And  yet  my  bliss  I  fear  to  call  it  mine, 
Lest  fresh  foes  lurk  with  unforeseen  dismay. 


l6o  ONE  DREAD. 


ONE   DREAD. 

\  O  depth,  dear  Love,  for  thee  is  too  profound ; 
There  is  no  farthest  height   thou   mayst  not 
dare. 

Nor  shall  thy  wings  fail  in  the  upper  air: 
In  funeral  robe  and  wreath  my  past  lies  bound; 
No  old-time  voice  assails  me  with  its  sound 

When  thine  I  hear ;  no  former  joy  seems  fair ; 

And  now  one  only  thing  could  bring  despair. 
One  grief  like  compassing  seas  my  life  surround, 
One  only  terror  in  my  way  be  met, 

One  great  eclipse  change  my  glad  day  to  night. 

One  phantom  only  turn  from  red  to  white 
The  lips  whereon  thy  lips  have  once  been  set : 

Thou  knowest  well,  dear  Love,  what  that  must  be,  — 

The  dread  of  some  dark  day  unshared  by  thee. 


AFAR.  l6l 


AFAR. 

HERE  Thou  art  not  no  day  holds  light  for  me, 
The   brightest   noontide    turns    to    midnight 
deep ; 

There  no  bird  sings,  but  awesome  shadows  creep,  — 
Persistent  ghosts  that  hold  my  memory, 
And  walk  where  Joy  and  Hope  once  walked  with  thee, 
And  in  thy  place  their  lonesome  vigil  keep,  — 
Sad  shades  that  haunt  the  inmost  ways  of  sleep, 
No  kindly  morning  ever  bids  them  flee. 

Those  tireless  footsteps,  will  they  never  cease? 

Like  crownless  queens  they  tread  their  ancient  ways,  — 
Pale  phantoms  of  old  dreams  and  vanished  days,  — 

And  mock  my  poor  endeavors  after  peace. 

Too  long  this  Arctic  night,  too  keen  its  cold ; 

Come  back,  strong  sun,  and  warm  me  as  of  old  ! 
II 


1 62  LAST   YEAR. 


LAST  YEAR. 


I. 

^OU   thought,  O  Love,  you   loved    me    then,  I 
know; 
For  that  I  bless  you,  now  when  Love  is  cold. 
Remembering  how  warm  the  tale  you  told, 
While  winds  of  autumn '  fitfully  did  blow. 
And,  by  the  sea's  perpetual  ebb  and  flow, 
We  wandered  on  together  to  behold 
Noon's  radiant  splendor,  or  the  sunset's  gold, 
Or  beauty  of  still  nights  where  moons  hung  low. 

Your  voice  grew  tender  when  you  called  my  name ; 
I  heard  that  voice  to-day,  —  was  it  the  same  ?  — 

The  old-time  music  trembles  in  it  yet. 
Your  touch  thrilled  through  me  like  a  sudden  flame. 
And  then  Love's  sweet  and  subtle  madness  came. 

And  glad  lips  clung  that  now  to  kiss  forget. 


LAST  YEAR.  163 


II. 


You  surely  must  remember,  though  to-day 
There  is  no  spell  to  charm  you  in  the  past. 
So  dear  the  dream  was  that  it  could  not  last : 

Too  soon  our  pleasant  skies  were  changed  to  gray ; 

The  sun  turned  from  our  barren  land  away, 
And  all  the  leaves  swept  by  us  on  the  blast, 
And  all  our  hopes  to  that  wild  wind  were  cast  — 

For  dead  Love's  soul  there  is  no  place  to  pray. 

But  still  the  old  time  lingers  in  our  thought; 

In  our  regretful  dreams  the  old  suns  rise, 
And  from  their  shining,  memory  hath  caught 

Some  lingering  glory  of  that  glad  surprise 
When  Love  rose  on  us  like  the  sun,  and  brought 

Our  hearts  their  morning  under  last  year's  skies. 


l64  FIRST  LOVE. 


FIRST   I.OVE. 

jllME  was  you  heard  the  music  of  a  sigh, 
And    Love    awoke;    and  with    it    Song   was 
born,  — 

Song  glad  as  young  birds  carol  in  the  morn. 
And  tender  as  the  blue  and  brooding  sky, 
When  all  the  earth  feels  Spring's  warm  witchery. 
And  with  fresh  flowers  her  bosom  doth  adorn ; 
And  lovers  love,  and  cannot  love  forlorn. 
Since  Love  is  of  the  gods,  and  may  not  die. 

In  after  years  may  come  some  wildering  light,  — 
Some  sweet  delusion,  followed  for  a  space,  — 

Such  fitful  fire-flies  flash  athwart  the  night. 
But  fade  before  the  shining  of  that  face 

Which  shines  upon  you  still  in  Death's  despite, 
Whose  steadfast  beauty  lights  till  death  your  days. 


LOVE'S  FORGIVENESS,  165 


LOVE'S   FORGIVENESS. 


DO  forgive  you  for  the  pain  I  bear, 
Though  bitter  pain  is  mingled  with  my  bliss ; 
For  still  I  think,  while  thrilling  to  your  kiss, 
**  He  found  that  other  woman  much  more  fair." 
I  read  your  words,  and  see,  immortal  there, 
Another  love  —  how  warm  it  was  to  this ! 
And  know  that  from  my  face  you  still  must  miss 
The  beauty  that  another  used  to  wear. 

Yet  I  forgive  you,  Dear,  and  how  my  head 
To  Destiny,  my  master  and  your  own,  — 

He  sets  the  way  wherein  my  feet  must  tread ; 
And  if  he  give  me  nothing  quite  mine  own,  — 

I  know  some  day  my  heart,  so  sore  bested. 
Will  rest  most  quietly,  and  turn  to  stone. 


1 66  IN  TIME   TO   COME. 


IN   TIME   TO   COME. 

I]  HE  time  will  come  full  soon  !     I  shall  be  gone, 
And  you  sit  silent  in  the  silent  place, 
With  the  sad  Autumn  sunlight  on  your  face. 
Remembering  the  loves  that  were  your  own, 
Haunted  perchance  by  some  familiar  tone. 
You  will  be  weary  then  for  the  dead  days, 
And  mindful  of  their  sweet  and  bitter  ways. 
Though  passion  into  memory  shall  have  grown. 

Then  will  I  with  your  other  ghosts  draw  nigh, 
And  whisper,  as  I  pass,  some  former  word, — 

Some  old  endearment  known  in  days  gone  by. 
Some  tenderness  that  once  your  pulses  stirred ;  — 

Which  was  it  spoke  to  you,  the  wind  or  I? 
I  think  you,  musing,  scarcely  will  have  heard. 


A   SUMMER'S  GROWTH,  1 6/ 


A  SUMMER'S  GRO\VTH. 

AIR  was  the  flower  which  proffers  now  its  fruit ; 
The  bud  began  to  swell  'neath  Spring's  soft 
dew, 

And  tenderly  the  winds  of  summer  blew 

To  foster  it;  and  great  strong  suns  were  mute, 

As  through  its  veins  warm  life  began  to  shoot. 

And  it  put  on  each  day  some  beauty  new. 

And  all  the  fairer,  as  I  think,  it  grew, 

Because  the  streams  were  tears  about  its  root. 

But  now  our  fruit  hangs  well  within  our  reach, 
And  this  indeed  is  time  for  gathering. 

It  hath  the  bloom  of  summer-tinted  peach. 
Each  charm  it  hath  that  any  man  could  sing; 

Yet  we,  who  taste  it,  whisper  each  to  each, 
"  Not  sweet,  but  very  bitter,  is  this  thing ! " 


1 68  MY  BIRTHDAY. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

■  HIDE  not  because  I  doubt  who  would  believe  ! 
Has  not  my  life  been  like  that  April  day 
Whose  dawn  awoke  us  with  such  proud  display 
Of  mocking  glory,  kindled  to  deceive, 
While  in  the  distance  low  winds  seemed  to   grieve,  — 
Winds  sad  with  prophecy, — then  skies  grew  gray, 
And  all  the  morning  splendor  passed  avfay. 
And  dark  with  rain  came  on  the  gusty  eve? 

That  was  my  birthday,  symbol  of  my  birth, — 
Capricious  April's  heir,  the  sport  of  Fate, 

Doomed  to  be  better  friends  with  Grief  than  Mirth, 
To  know  no  love  that  did  not  come  too  late, — 

My  only  hope,  sore  spent  with  life's  long  pain, 

In  some  glad  morning  to  be  born  again. 


SOME  ENGLISH  OPINIONS 


Mrs.  Moulton's  "Swallow  Flights." 


Prof.  William  Afinto,  in  London  '* Examiner" 

Such  poems  as  "Swallow  Flights"  are  sure  to  command 
attention  wherever  and  in  whatever  form  they  are  read,  because  of 
their  marked  individuality  and  power. 

In  this  little  volume  there  is  no  trace  of  the  provinciality  of  tone 
which  has  hitherto  prevented  any  American  poet  from  attaining 
the  first  rank.  These  verses  are  fresh,  direct,  spontaneous,  occu- 
pied wholly  and  earnestly  with  their  subject,  without  any  sideward 
looking  or  unea.sy  straining  after  the  methods  of  other  poets;  and 
she  shows  herself  possessed  of  sufficient  resource  to  fill  them  with 
a  rich  and  pure  music  of  their  own.  Here  in  the  mother  country, 
where  we  have  so  many  schools  of  poetry,  and  so  many  eminent 
masters  and  hardly  less  eminent  disciples,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  receive 
from  over  the  seas  poems  which  are  so  entirely  independent  of 
them  all,  and  yet  so  unaffected  in  their  originality.  It  is,  perhaps, 
a  good  augury  for  the  future  of  American  poetry  that  the  spirit 
with  which  these  poems  have  most  in  common  is  the  spirit  of  the 
forerunners  of  the  great  Elizabethan  period..  They  are  not  at  all 
archaic  in  form,  but  they  deal  with  the  simple,  primitive  emotions  : 


<^ 


and  again  and  again,  as  we  read  through  them,  we  are  reminded  of 
Wyatt  and  Sydney,  and  the  casual  lyrics  gathered  in  such  collec- 
tions as  "  England's  Helicon/'  The  following  sonnet  ("  One 
Dread  "),  for  example,  apart  from  a  slight  difference  in  the  scheme 
of  its  rhymes,  might  be  passed  off  as  one  of  the  series  addressed 
by  "  Astrophel "  to  "  Stella." 

There  is  no  "  poisonous  honey  stolen  from  France "  here ;  it 
comes  from  the  English  Hymettus.  To  quote  another  example, 
the  following  (*'  How  Long?  ")  might  have  found  a  place  by  the 
side  of  Wyatt's  "  Forget  Not  Yet/' 

To  those  who  have  formed  their  idea  of  the  American  poetess 
from  the  friends  and  admirers  of  Elijah  Pogram,  Mrs.  Moulton's 
*'  Swallow  Flights  "  will  be  a  pleasant  surprise.  Her  language  is 
never  extravagant ;  her  "swallows"  never  mar  the  beauty  of  their 
flight  by  soaring  to  dizzy  heights  of  the  sublime  and  the  fantastic 
Meal.  We  do  not,  indeed,  know  where  we  shall  find  among  the 
works  of  English  poetesses  the  same  self-controlled  fulness  of 
expression  with  the  same  depth  and  tenderness  of  simple  feeling. 
The  reserved  strength  of  Mrs.  Moulton's  art  is  of  a  kind  which 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  consider  peculiarly  masculine.  George 
Eliot's  achievements  in  the  field  of  imagination  have  a  greatness 
that  these  humble  "  Swallow  Flights  "  cannot  pretend  to,  and  her 
expression  of  strong  feeling  in  prose  has  long  been  above  criticism 
as  masterly ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  she  has  ever  succeeded 
in  expressing  the  same  intensity  of  feeling  vciverse  of  equal  fulness, 
and  equally  free  from  that  taint  of  over-excitement  which  is  so 
fatal  to  high  art. 

From  ^^  The  Athenamm,^* 

Mrs.  Moulton  has  a  real  claim  to  attention.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  of  these  poems  that  they  exhibit  delicate  and  rare  beauty, 
marked  originality,  and  perfection  of  style.     What  is  still  better, 


they  impress  us  with  a  sense  of  vivid  and  subtle  imagination,  and 
that  spontaneous  feeling  which  is  the  essence  of  lyrical  poetry. 
Mrs.  Moulton's  general  vein  is  sad;  but  it  is  plain  that  the  sadness 
is  genuine,  and  not  sought  after  as  a  stimulant  to  composition, — 
a  motive  which  seems  too  prevalent  with  modern  writers,  who  must 
fancy  themselves  wretched  before  they  can  rhyme.  A  poem  called 
"The  House  of  Death"  is  a  fine  example  of  the  writer's  best 
style.  It  paints  briefly,  but  with  ghostly  fidelity,  the  doomed 
house,  which  stands  blind  and  voiceless  amid  the  light  and  laugh- 
ter of  summer.  The  lines  which  we  print  in  italics  show  a  depth 
of  suggestion  and  a  power  of  epithet  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
surpass. 

THE    HOUSE  OF   DEATH. 

Not  a  hand  has  lifted  tlie  latchet 

Since  she  went  out  of  the  door; 
No  footstep  shall  cross  the  threshold, 

Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 

There  is  rust  upon  locks  and  hinges, 
And  mould  and  bh'ght  on  the  walls; 

And  silence  faints  in  the  chambers^ 
And  darkness  waits  in  the  hail,  — 

Waits  as  all  things  have  waited 
Since  she  went,  that  day  of  spring, 

Borne  in  her  pallid  splendor. 

To  dwell  in  the  Court  of  the  King, 

With  lilies  on  brow  and  bosom, 

With  robes  of  silken  sheen, 
Aftd  her  wonderful^  frozen  beauty 

The  lilies  and  silk  between. 

Red  roses  she  left  behind  her. 

But  they  died  long,  long  ago ; 
'Twas  the  odorous  ghost  of  a  blossom 

That  seemed  through  the  dusk  to  glow. 


The  garments  she  left  mock  the  shadows 

With  hints  of  womanly  grace; 
And  her  image  swims  in  the  mirror 

That  was  so  used  to  her  face. 

The  birds  make  insolent  music 

Where  the  sunshine  riots  outside, 
And  the  winds  are  merry  and  wanton 

With  the  summer's  pomp  and  pride. 

But  into  this  desolate  mansion, 

Where  love  has  closed  the  door, 
Nor  sunshine  nor  summer  shall  enter. 

Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 

The  sonnets  are  no  less  spontaneous  than  the  lyrics,  and  are  of 
the  same  high  order  of  imagination.  They  differ  essentially  from 
most  modern  sonnets,  inasmuch  as  they  narrate,  or  at  all  events 
imply,  a  story.  "A  Summer's  Growth,"  showing  how  a  love  ex- 
panding amid  all  prospering  circumstances  turns  bitter  in  maturity, 
is  an  excellent  specimen  of  what  Mrs.  Moulton  can  effect  in  this 
difificult  form  of  composition. 

To  persons  who  judge  poetry  by  essence  rather  than  bulk,  and 
who  have  accepted  the  truth  that  the  age  for  epics  is  past,  —  that 
we  have  turned  from  fabled  exploits  of  heroes  and  demigods  to 
the  deeper,  if  more  limited,  interests  of  man  in  his  daily  relations 
to  life,  —  this  book  will  be  especially  welcome. 

From  the  *'  Morning  Post^''  London, 

To  the  critic,  weary  with  disappointments,  it  is  a  true  pleasure 
to  meet  with  a  book  which  not  only  professes  to  be  poetry,  but 
makes  good  its  profession.  Such  a  book  is  this  of  Mrs.  Moulton's, 
which  displays,  throughout,  sublety  of  imagination,  delicacy  of 
thought,  precision  of  execution,  and  a  depth  of  genuine  emotion 
too  seldom  met  with  in  these  days  of  artificial  sentiment.     Mrs. 


Moulton  possesses,  moreover,  the  somewhat  rare  faculty  of  know- 
ing when  to  stop.  Her  felicity  of  epithet  enables  her  to  produce 
striking  results  with  no  waste  of  means.  A  few  graphic  touches, 
and  we  have  before  us  a  poem  all  the  more  perfect  because  it  does 
not  exhaust  the  subject,  but  leaves  something  to  the  co-operating 
imagination  of  the  reader.  "The  House  of  Death,"  for  example, 
contrasts  the  grief  of  man  with  the  callousness  of  Nature  with  a 
fulness  of  suggestion  and  conciseness  of  method  that  impress  an 
indelible  picture  on  the  memory. 

Brief  as  the  poems  are  which  compose  this  slender  volume, 
they  yet  exhibit  great  variety  of  sentiment  and  treatment.  Let  the 
reader  compare  with  "  The  House  of  Death "  the  spring  carol 
called  "May  Flowers,**  and  set  the  brightness  and  daintiness  of 
the  one  against  the  almost  supernatural  suggestiveness  of  the 
other. 

In  a  spirit  distinct  from  either  of  the  above  is  "  A  Problem," 
which,  by  its  quaint  fancy,  recalls,  though  with  no  sense  of  imita- 
tion, our  earlier  English  poets.  Faultless  in  conception  as  in 
manner,  "  A  Madrigal  "  exhibits  that  simple  but  emphatic  music 
of  rhythm  so  essential  to  this  form  of  composition.  It  it  a  sigh 
over  the  mutability  of  love,  —  a  sigh  the  pain  of  which  is  softened 
by  its  tenderness. 

The  expression  of  concentrated  despair  entitled  "  At  The  Last," 
evinces  once  more  a  distinct  phase  of  emotion.  It  is  hopeless  as 
if  death  itself  had  been  requjckened  to  utter  it.  The  forgiveness 
which  it  breathes  is  more  terrible  than  any  form  of  implacability. 

Resisting  the  temptation  to  quote  further  from  the  lyrical  por- 
tion of  the  book,  we  pass  at  once  to  the  sonnets,  which,  though 
there  are  but  nine  of  them,  deserve  especial  notice.  Excellent  in 
construction  and  vigorous  in  spirit,  they  display  the  condensation 
which  we  have  before  praised  and  which  is  here  of  essential  value. 


If  we  interpret  them  rightly,  they  form  a  complete  series  and 
shadow  forth  a  story.  To  make  the  sonnet  a  vehicle  for  narrative 
is  to  turn  it  to  a  use  novel  in  our  time,  though  the  same  purpose 
has  to  some  extent  been  realized  in  the  "  Vita  Nuova  "  of  Dante, 
In  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Moulton,  the  experiment  is  successful,  though 
it  might  be  somewhat  dangerous  to  regard  it  as  a  general  preced- 
ent. The  first  three  sonnets,  entitled  respectively  "  The  New 
Day,"  "  One  Dread,"  and  "  Afar,"  show  the  happiness  of  new  love 
before  which  old  griefs  fade  out  and  old  joys  turn  pale.  The  two 
which  follow,  under  the  same  heading  of  "  Last  Year,"  strike  a 
note  of  trouble  and  change  which  in  the  sixth  and  seventh  sonnets, 
''  First  Love "  and  "  Love's  Forgiveness,"  are  shown  to  spring 
from  the  memory  of  a  former  love  that  recurs  to  one  of  the  dram- 
atis personce.  In  Sonnet  VIIL^'In  Time  to  Come,"  we  see  the 
division  between  heart  and  heart  surely  widening.  "  A  Summer's 
Growth,"  which  closes  the  series,  seems  to  intimate,  if  read  by  the 
light  of  the  entire  context,  that  a  new  love  planted  on  the  grave  of 
a  dead  one,  though  it  have  brave  promise  in  its  spring,  may  not 
thrive  in  its  maturity.  With  some  difficulty  in  making  a  selection 
we  give  the  eighth  sonnet,  which  commends  itself  to  us  by  a  touch 
of  irony  rather  mournful  than  bitter,  and  by  a  reserved  strength 
which  develops  in  its  very  restraint  the  passion  which  inspires  it. 
It  is  truly  a  noble  sonnet ;  the  suggestiveness  of  the  lines  which 
conclude  it  cannot  easily  be  surpassed. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston  in  "  London  Academy.'* 

In  these  days  of  imitative  art,  it  is  refreshing  to  meet  with  a 
volume  like  the  present.  Mrs.  Moulton  is  an  American  lady;  the 
fact  that  her  work  shows  no  special  influence  of  either  American 
or  English  literature  is  therefore  in  itself  some  proof  of  tenacious 
originality.  The  distinguishing  qualities  of  these  poems  are  ex- 
treme directness  and  concentration  of  utterance,  unvarying  har- 
mony between  thought  and  expression,  and  a  happy  freedom  from 


that  costly  elaboration  of  style  so  much  in  vogue  at  present, 
through  which  lyrical  spontaneity  cannot  penetrate.  Yet,  while 
thus  free  from  elaboration,  Mrs.  Moulton*s  style  displays  rare 
felicity  of  epithet.  Two  poems,  entitled  respectively,  "  Morning 
Glory  "  and  "  Out  in  the  Snow,'*  are,  for  instance,  brilliant  speci- 
mens of  word-painting. .  The  first,  a  description  of  summer  sunrise, 
has  in  it  the  very  breath  and  voice  of  dawn,  the  strength  and  fresh- 
ness of  glad  awakening  life  ;  the  second,  which  paints  a  winter 
morning,  has  all  the  keenness,  yet  all  the  exhilaration  and  glory  of 
frosty  air  and  of  sunlight  upon  snow. 

These  examples,  with  others  equally  healthy  in  tone  and  vigor- 
ous in  execution,  show  that  when  Mrs.  Moulton  writes  sadly,  her 
sadness  is  not  of  necessity,  is  neither  sentimental  nor  artificial, 
but  only  the  natural  outcome  of  a  nature  equally  sensitive  to 
pleasure  and  to  pain,  and  endowed  with  unusual  capacities  for 
enjoying  or  suffering.  Nor  is  her  melancholy  merely  that  of  self- 
reference.  As  a  rule,  it  has  its  source  in  sympathy  with  man  in 
general,  and  takes  tender  note  of  the  perplexities  and  sufferings 
which  belong  to  his  condition. 

The  poetical  faculty  of  the  writer  is  in  no  way  more  strongly 
evinced  than  by  the  subtlety  and  suggestiveness  of  her  ideas.  In 
a  poem  where  she  speculates  on  what  may  be  the  condition  of 
men  and  women  after  death,  she  speaks  — 

"  Of  the  deep  grave's  delights. 
Where  through  long  days  and  nights 
They  hear  the  green  things  grow  — 

Cool-rooted  flowers  that  come 
So  near  to  that  still  home, 

Their  ways  the  dead  must  know  — 


And  shivers  in  the  grass, 
When  winds  of  summer  pass. 
And  whisper  as  they  go 


Of  the  mad  life  above, 

Where  men  like  masquers  move ; 

Or  are  they  ghosts  —  who  knows  ? 

Sad  ghosts  who  cannot  die, 
And  watch  slow  years  go  by 

Amid  those  painted  shows  ?  " 

This  intimate  association  of  the  dead  with  the  mysterious  and 
hidden  life  of  Nature  is  an  idea  which  could  only  have  occurred  to 
a  true  poet.  Not  less  imaginative  is  the  fancied  confusion  of  life 
with  death  in  which  both  become  equally  unreal  and  phantasmal. 

These  poems  have  another  and  rare  merit,  with  all  their  imagi- 
native force :  they  are  pervaded  by  the  depth  and  sweetness  of 
perfect  womanhood,  and  entirely  free  from  that  trick  of  mannishness 
into  which  intellectual  women  are  sometimes  betrayed.  They  re- 
veal, at  times,  the  strength  of  passion  ;  but  it  'is  always  passion 
transfigured  by  love.  wSometimes  the  feminine  nature  asserts  itself 
by  a  mournful  irony,  subtle  as  the  most  delicate  aroma. 

We  have  but  brief  space  to  speak  of  the  sonnets.  They  are 
excellent  in  construction  as  in  spirit. 

This  volume  will  appeal  primarily  to  poets  ;  but  its  unstrained, 
simple  beauty  of  thought  and  expression  will  surely  win  for  it  a  far 
wider  audience. 

Fro77i  the  "  Sunday  Tinies^''  London. 

Here  is  something  more  than  the  gentle  and  pensive  thought, 
the  humanizing  aspiration,  which  constitute  the  soul  of  much 
poetry  from  feminine  sources.  These  qualities  indeed  are  there  ; 
but  there  is,  in  addition,  a  measure  of  poetic  insight,  and  a  power 
of  bringing  into  sympathetic  accord  human  aspirations  and  the 
beauty  of  exterior  things,  which  is  one  of  the  rarest  and  most 
precious  gifts  of  the  poet.  The  volume  is  sure  of  a  warm  welcome 
wherever  a  love  of  true  poetry  is  found. 


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